


Changeless Through The Changing Scene

by Hekate1308



Series: Different Beginnings [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1464526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty was dead, and Sherlock and John were living together - but Moran was still out there. Sequel to "That Might Have Been My Fate". AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to my story "That Might Have Been My Fate". I recommend reading it first, but I don't think it's necessary.

John was a lot happier than he deserved to be, at least in his opinion. He had been the employee of a consulting criminal (true, he had shot him, but still, he didn't think that evened out everything he'd done), he'd kidnapped several people who clearly didn't deserve it, he'd come running simply because the favourite sniper of the consulting criminal, Sebastian Moran, had asked him to. And despite all of that, he was living with Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock had asked him to move in. Sherlock wanted to be his friend (or whatever he called it), despite the fact that he'd almost betrayed him – no, not almost. He had betrayed him, had done what Moriarty told him to do, had kidnapped the hostages –

And yet –

In the end, he had chosen Sherlock. He had chosen Sherlock's side, knowing that it would not only result in his death, but Harry's too, he had shot the consulting criminal –

And got a bullet in the chest for his troubles.

According to Sherlock, his life had been in the balance for over a day after he'd been shot. And the consulting detective should know, considering he had spent every minute in the hospital, first waiting for information, then in his room, praying (or hoping, or whatever Sherlock did when normal people did either) for him to wake up. And he'd asked him to move in with him. No, not really asked – he'd decided that John should move in with him. And the doctor had obeyed, because –

It felt right. It felt wonderfully right, and he had felt safe and at home at 221B Baker Street long before he'd even entertained the possibility (long before there even had been the possibility) of moving in with Sherlock. But there he was, living with the consulting detective, recuperating from the gunshot wound in his breast. He couldn't have been happier.

He knew it was strange; he knew he would be considered crazy by most people; but he couldn't help it. He and Sherlock had formed a bond, a bond even John couldn't explain, the moment they had met, a bond that had made him defy the most dangerous man (or maybe the second most dangerous man, he couldn't forget about Mycroft, according to Sherlock) he'd ever met, although he had been sure that it would lead to his death, to his sister's death –

As long as it meant that Sherlock was safe.

But Sherlock hadn't run or chased Moran (as John had, to be honest, sure he would). He had stayed with him. He had looked after him, even though there was nothing he could do. And he had been there when John woke up.

So, all of a sudden (or at least, it seemed sudden to John, which it really shouldn't have, considering his life in the past few months) he was living with a consulting detective.

And his life was every bit as exciting as he'd always wanted it to be, without admitting it. Even though he could do very little in the beginning.

A week after he'd woken up, he'd been so bored of the hospital that not even Sherlock had been able to ignore it. The consulting detective had talked to his brother – although he'd never admit that he'd asked Mycroft for a favour – and John had been discharged after just thirteen days (three of which he'd spent unconscious). By this time, everything he possessed had already been transferred to 221 B, and Mrs. Hudson had been very excited to meet him.

She had been waiting for them at the front door when the cab arrived in Baker Street, Sherlock (uncharacteristically) helping John out of the car. She'd beamed when she saw the doctor.

"You must be John. I'm Mrs. Hudson, your landlady – Sherlock told me you were arriving today, so I made tea. I'll bring it up as soon as you're settled. I have a couple of biscuits, too – but just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper".

John had looked at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, as she shuffled back inside her flat, mist likely to look after the kettle, and the consulting detective had shrugged his shoulder, but smiled the half-smile John had come to know rather well ever since he'd introduced himself to Sherlock. "She isn't refused easily."

"You don't say". They had both chuckled a bit, John wincing – somehow, Sherlock's presence made him forget that he'd been shot most of the time and the consulting detective had helped him up the stairs and on the couch. Mrs. Hudson had come up two minutes later, apparently convinced that this was more than enough time to "settle".

"Sherlock, dear, where will John sleep? He shouldn't have to go up the stairs – and I'm not sure he should be sleeping up there anyway, with the chemicals and all. Or will you – ".

She looked from Sherlock to John, and the doctor resigned himself to the fact that their landlady obviously thought that they were together.

Sherlock, who emerged at this moment with a few pillows from his bedroom, determined to make John comfortable, even though John had assured him he already was, simply answered, "John will sleep in my room, for the time being, Mrs. Hudson. I'll take the sofa. And don't worry – I made sure that no chemical residue was left behind in the upstairs bedroom."

A certain tone in his voice convinced John that Mycroft had had the room checked, too, so he accepted a cup from Mrs. Hudson and drank the hot tea to hide his smile.

She'd sat down on Sherlock's chair, no doubt thinking this was a very subtle way of ensuring that Sherlock sat next to John, and asked, "How did you two meet?"

So Sherlock had thought about everything except the fact that his landlady might be curious how he found his flatmate. John wasn't surprised. He looked at Sherlock, and realized that the consulting detective thought, just as John did, that it was better to give his landlady their old cover story.

"An old friend introduced us – Mike Stamford. He and I studied together, and Sherlock met him at St. Bart's."

Mrs. Hudson beamed again, and John realized that she was happy that Sherlock had found another friend. He swallowed so he wouldn't tell her that he'd almost ended up Sherlock's worst enemy. She left them alone half an hour later, although John was sure that she'd try to keep their flat clean and make them tea on a regular basis, all while insisting she was "not their housekeeper".

As it turned out, he'd been right.

He'd lived with Sherlock for almost a month now, the consulting detective trying to be considerate of his "delicate" state by not playing his violin in the middle of the night (he had played it at eight am in the morning, though).

Mycroft had shown up about two weeks after he'd been released, and he had still been suspicious of his brother's friend (not that John could blame him).

He'd looked at John, and the doctor had felt that Mycroft was once again scrutinizing him, trying to decide whether he could trust him or not, and at the same time feeling grateful to him for saving his brother's life. And considering Mycroft Holmes could hide what he was thinking even better than Sherlock, John was convinced letting him see was the older Holmes' way of ensuring John that he wouldn't kidnap or kill him. Which would have been a relief, if John hadn't been equally sure that this could change very quickly if he ever (almost) betrayed Sherlock again. At least there would always be enough adrenaline in his system to ensure his limp wouldn't come back.

Mycroft didn't stay long (and until he left Sherlock made awful screeching noises with his violin John feared he would always hear when his brother came around). John supposed he had done what he came for: he had warned the doctor. But since he wasn't going to work for another consulting criminal in the foreseeable future, he wasn't very concerned.

Around the time Mycroft showed up, John had insisted that Sherlock should go to crime scenes again – he appreciated the consulting detective's efforts to make him comfortable, but it was clear that Sherlock hadn't any experience with dealing with injured people and Mrs. Hudson did more than enough fussing (not that John was annoyed; he already liked her a great deal). Plus, he definitely preferred the rude, strange Sherlock that had somehow become his best friend despite everything. The consulting detective seemed to have got the message, since the night after he'd come back from his first crime scene since the pool, he had woken John up with an explosion that had all but pulverized the kitchen table – at least it had given them a reason to finally replace the old one.

A few days after that, DI Lestrade, the policeman who called Sherlock in most of the time, came over, as he put it, "for a visit". It was clear that he was curious who had decided to live with Sherlock, and would have been angry – Sherlock wasn't an animal in a cage you watched for your amusement – if he hadn't realized, from the way DI Lestrade talked to and about him, that he actually cared for the consulting detective.

After about half an hour of drinking tea with the detective – while Sherlock did some experiments on the new kitchen table – the consulting detective was called to St Bart's; apparently there was a body part waiting for him. DI Lestrade stayed and, after the door had closed, looked at John, the question he had obviously withheld for some time finally spilling out. "Don't take me wrong, but Sherlock isn't an easy man to get along with, and you seem like a straight-forward bloke, so – "

"Why did I move in with him?" John asked, thankful that, by now, he could move around with relative ease and Sherlock had explained to the detective that he'd had "an accident" some weeks before. He shrugged his shoulders, not knowing how to explain his connection with Sherlock.

But he didn't have to, because Lestrade grinned. "I know the feeling – half of Scotland Yard thinks I'm mad for putting up with him."

"And the other half?"

"Already thought I was because I put up with Anderson – Sherlock doesn't see it that way, and I don't like him much, but he's good at what he does."

They chuckled, and John asked, "More tea, DI –"

"Greg, please. And yes, why not. There isn't much to do anyway until Sherlock finishes his tests."

When he left two hours later, they had decided to go out for a pint as soon as John would be allowed to, and the doctor reflected that, somehow, ever since he became friends with the most unsociable man he'd ever met, he constantly met new people who could easily become his friends too.

So, all in all, his life had turned out far better than he deserved. Harry was even talking (granted, it wasn't much, but it was a beginning) of quitting the booze. And, after a month of mostly sitting or lying in Baker Street and being pampered by Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft's doctors finally allowed him to go out again, as long as he didn't "strain himself".

Nevertheless, there was a problem.

They hadn't heard anything about the whereabouts of Sebastian Moran. Moriarty's web was still active, despite Sherlock's best efforts, and Moran had apparently overtaken the business. But no one knew where he was.

Sherlock invited John to come to a crime scene with him the day after he'd been allowed to leave Baker Street, and he gladly accepted. Despite his best efforts not to, he enjoyed working with Sherlock; he enjoyed telling Sherlock that the man must have been poisoned, and he enjoyed the chase after the killer, although he was probably straining himself.

Life stayed good for the next few months. They solved cases, they fought, they laughed, and while still worried about Moran, John had to admit that the memories of working for Moriarty were slowly fading.

And then Ronald Adair was shot.


	2. Chapter 2

John was used to Sherlock's reactions by now, and knew that him being excited over a death didn't necessarily mean that he was happy someone had died; he simply enjoyed the puzzle, the chance to escape the stagnation that was threatening his mind every minute he didn't have anything to think about.

And yet – John couldn't help but think that Sherlock might have been a little less excited about Moran resurfacing and killing someone.

It was a normal day at 221 B – that was, John had opened the fridge in the morning and found four hands and a liver in plastic bags, and realized there was no milk – and Sherlock hadn't been home for quite some time; in fact, he had already been gone when John woke up. To be honest, he had woken up rather late – Sherlock apparently influenced his habits more than he'd foreseen – and the consulting detective was a free man; he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, without having to tell his flatmate anything. And, frankly, the thought that he should feel indebted to John, simply because the doctor had worked for his worst enemy and chosen his side was preposterous.

Still, John worried. Ever since he'd been allowed to leave the flat, Sherlock had barely stepped out of the flat without him. And now, suddenly, he was gone, without a note or a text.

Naturally, Sherlock happily bounced up the stairs an hour later, after John's third cup of tea. "John!"

He knew the consulting detective well enough by now to realize something big must have happened; Sherlock's eyes sparkled even more than usual, and he almost looked flushed.

"Yes?" he asked, trying not to let show that he was a little angry that Sherlock had left him in the dark and gone off to do God knew what.

Sherlock strolled into the kitchen, without taking off his coat or scarf. "Ronald Adair has been murdered!"

John swallowed, not really knowing what to think. "And this is apparently good because..."

"Think, John, think! He was a partner of Moran's – that is to say, he was working as a croupier in a casino and Moran used him to win most of the poker games, thereby financing his life style – I doubt Moriarty paid him a lot, and he wouldn't have cared, he was, after all, besotted with him, and after Moriarty died, Adair would have been his only source of "legal" money – while always taking care to lose small sums now and then, so it wouldn't look suspicious. Somewhere down the line, Adair must have realized that he was helping and taking money from a dangerous criminal, and he refused to keep working with Moran... So he killed him."

John nodded, although Sherlock couldn't see him. So a dead man with a conscience was good news. Then again, anything that brought them closer to Moran...

"And you can prove that he killed him?" he asked while walking into the kitchen. Sherlock was checking on his latest experiment – not involving hands or the liver, but a piece of a human kidney – and turned around.

"I know Moran killed him – no other possible explanation. Of course I will need evidence to prove it – we are going to the crime scene".

Naturally he had assumed that John would follow him, and he did. He had lost his job at St Bart's after he got shot and, because of obvious reasons, unable to make it to his next shift – it had only been locum work anyway, and he hadn't cared much for it. And Sherlock seemed to need his assistance, though John couldn't say why.

So he followed him into the cab and to the crime scene. They were both silent, Sherlock going over the facts in his head and John wondering if he could have prevented this from happening. He had shot Moriarty, and he couldn't really be held responsible for Moran escaping, as he had then been bleeding to death. But if Sherlock hadn't stayed with him, if Sherlock had chased Sebastian – he could have caught him. And Ronald Adair wouldn't be lying dead in his flat.

He had come so far in his thoughts when Sherlock turned his head around to look at him. He sighed. "John, while I am sure that your conscience, if it were known, would bring you nothing but sympathy, your logic is flawed. It is not your fault that Ronald Adair is dead".

"How did you – never mind". But John smiled as he said it, and Sherlock smirked.

They didn't talk again until they arrived at the apartment block Aldair had lived in. Sherlock jumped out the cab and rushed into the building while John – as usual – was left to pay. It wasn't like he didn't have enough money. Once, when he'd still been in hospital, he'd asked Mycroft to make sure that the money Moriarty had paid him was given to charity, and as far as he could tell, it had been; yet when he had checked his bank statements after he'd been released, he'd found a very generous sum on his accounts, no doubt courtesy of the older Holmes for almost giving his life for his brother. At least Mycroft was on the good side of the law – most of the time – and John had no scruples to use money that he had been given because of his connection to Sherlock.

He walked into the building and asked a PC where they were. "Third floor, apartment 307" he answered and John thanked him, taking the elevator.

Greg was waiting for him when he stepped out. "John. About time you showed up – Sherlock has already insulted Anderson twice."

The doctor couldn't help but smile. "And Donavan?"

Greg sighed. "Apparently she didn't even go home this morning to change. She should know better, by now".

They made their way into the flat, Sherlock standing over the body of a young man in his early thirties. He looked up when they entered.

"John?"

The doctor kneeled down. Adair had been killed by one shot that had entered his temple and gone through his head. It had been a good shot; John didn't doubt for a moment (if he could have doubted Sherlock's deduction to begin with) that it had been Moran.

"Definitely a sniper" he said. "I'd say dead for about fourteen hours..." "He was found two hours ago, and his mother heard from him the last time yesterday at about nine pm, so that sounds about right" Greg answered.

Sherlock nodded before announcing "I saved the bullet from Anderson" and waving the evidence bag in front of John's face. The doctor took a look at the bullet and frowned confused.

"That's not a bullet for a sniper riffle... That's what you would use in a small pistol".

"It confuses us, too" Greg admitted. "At first, I didn't think it could have been a sniper, but the door was locked from the inside and no one could climb up to the window. When I called Sherlock, he immediately insisted that the murderer must be someone called "Moran". Ex-soldier apparently." He turned to John. "Do you know him?"

John swallowed. He couldn't tell Greg that he'd met Moran while working for Jim Moriarty, but, if they caught him, and he let slip that he knew John –

"I met him once" he finally managed to stammer. "A... soldier's reunion. We talked only briefly, though. He wasn't in my regiment... I can't even tell you where he was stationed..."

"I think it's enough to know that he is currently the most dangerous man in London, Lestrade" Sherlock interrupted him, and the doctor shot him a grateful look.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Are you finally warming up to your brother?"

"The most dangerous criminal" Sherlock corrected immediately, and Greg looked at John, shaking his head, but with a fond smile on his lips.

The consulting detective walked over to the window and looked out. "He has to have shot him from somewhere" he murmured. "Of course! John, Lestrade!" He was pointing at a faraway, higher apartment block slightly to the right.

"Sherlock..." John said "That is a very long distance. I'm sure a sniper could pull it off, but still – that's incredibly accurate, especially with this ammunition..." His friend turned around and John realized. "Of course – he must have built or have constructed his own gun."

Sherlock nodded. "Lestrade, we will check out the building. He most likely shot from the roof".

Greg looked as if he wanted to protest – or at least insist that they should take a policeman with them – but only for a moment. Then he shrugged and told John, "Just take care". It was clear what he meant; look after Sherlock as well as himself, and John smiled.

They left the flat and made their way to the building.

"Really, one could think I didn't know how to take care of myself" Sherlock mumbled.

"You don't. I have to force you to eat and sleep, remember? Greg is just worried because – "

"Who is Greg?"

John stared at Sherlock. "Lestrade? Silver hair, the only DI you get along with –"

"I know who Lestrade is, I just didn't know – "

"That he had a first name?"

Sherlock huffed and John smirked.

When they were standing in front of the apartment block, John opened his mouth to ask how Sherlock wanted to get in, when the consulting detective pressed several bells.

When a woman's voice came through the speaker, he told her that he had to deliver a package in the floor above her, and could she please let him in?

The buzzer sounded, and they entered the building.

"Some people trust too easily" John commented.

"Yes, but it makes it easier" Sherlock replied.

They took the stairs to avoid being seen – they were about to go on a rooftop they had no business to be, after all – and John realized that Sherlock was slowing down, mindful of his injury. He could by now take the stairs without much problems, but several flights of them were still a little bit difficult, and John was touched. Just when he thought he'd finally figured Sherlock out, the consulting detective surprised him again.

Sherlock picked the lock of the door leading to the roof and they took a look around. John was studying the small wall that was apparently supposed to keep people from falling down (although only a metre high) when he saw three circular spots on its surface and called out to Sherlock. "I found the place his riffle stood".

Sherlock was by his side in a moment, looking first at the spot, then over to Ronald Adair's flat. "Good shot".

"Snipers tend to be good at that, yeah".

"He hasn't given us much to work with, though" Sherlock sighed. "We'll have to catch him first".

John nodded and turned around, looking for clues that they might have missed, although it was unlikely.

And then he saw it.

In the middle of the rooftop there was a large lightning conductor. And someone had taped a piece of paper on its base.

John walked over and read it.

"Sherlock".

The consulting detective, who had been busy mumbling to himself about what sort of gun Moran could have constructed for himself, turned around when he heard the urgency in John's voice. He took a few steps towards him and came to stand beside John. He read the note and swallowed. The intention was clear.

 _Hello John,_  
IOU.  
S

Moran might have shot Aldair because the croupier hadn't wanted to do his bidding anymore...

But his real target was John Watson.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock unceremoniously ripped the out off the lightning rod and put it in a pocket of his coat. Noticing John's look, he explained, "I don't think Moran would like us to tell others about his threat. They would be in danger, too".

John nodded, reminding himself to use this the next time Sherlock said anything about Greg's intellect; there was no one else in the police force he could mean. Although, despite the fact that he'd worked for Moriarty, it hurt to know that Sherlock should take a threat on his life so casually.

A moment later, when he saw Sherlock take out his phone, he felt ashamed for the thought.

"Mycroft?" he inquired.

"Of course. Who else?"

John nodded again. Sherlock might not admit it, but he and Mycroft cared about each other, and his older brother was the one person he would turn to if not even John could help. "What are you telling him?"

"The truth. Moran is after you and he has to increase the surveillance".

John had already suspected that they were constantly watched; still, it wasn't a pleasant thought. To make sure, he asked, "And with surveillance, you mean..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Security, John. Don't worry, I disabled the cameras long ago – and Moriarty's explosion took care of the ones I couldn't find.

It was reassuring to know that he wasn't filmed in the shower, at least.

"So we are going to tell Greg – "

"That we found the spot the sniper used to shoot Aldair. We don't have to tell him about the note – I will make tests, of course, but I think that Moran is too intelligent to leave any prove behind".

Sherlock sounded excited, and John would have liked to be angry with him – no, that wasn't quite right. He would have liked to be able to be angry with him. But he couldn't. He could feel the same excitement coursing through his veins. And he and Sherlock were on the side of the angels, and somehow, that was all the reassurance he needed.

They went down the stairs – Sherlock trying to act like he didn't slow down on purpose again – and were soon back on the street, waiting for the police.

Greg arrived only a few minutes later. He looked undeniably happy – so no wonder he got along with Sherlock, he was probably as much an adrenaline junkie as John, without admitting it – but still thought it necessary to reprimand the consulting detective, which was probably not a bad thought, all things considered. "So you found it. And you couldn't take anyone with you because..."

"There was no reason to" Sherlock answered simply. "I have John".

And the simple trust this implied would have been enough to make John cry, if he hadn't had the presence of mind to clear his throat and to ask, "Sherlock, can we grab something to eat? I haven't had anything since breakfast".

Sherlock had nothing against it, and so he and John – who ignored Greg mouthing "How did you do that?" behind his friend's back – slowly walked over to a small restaurant, where John tried to make Sherlock eat, once more without success. He was used to it by now.

Afterwards, Sherlock insisted they go back to the flat because he wanted to "examine the flat in a controlled environment", but John knew better. And, true enough, when they entered the flat, Mycroft was already sitting in John's chair.

"Sherlock". His brother grumbled something and hung his coat up.

"John". He smiled politely at the doctor and John smiled back, sitting down on the sofa. "Mycroft".

The British Government cleared his throat and said, "Your text was a little cryptic, brother mine, but I understand that Doctor Watson is in danger?"

Sherlock reluctantly showed him the note before letting himself fall into his chair.

Mycroft didn't seem particularly concerned (John had to admit, however, that the older Holmes was a lot harder to read than his brother). "So Sebastian Moran is out for revenge because he lost his boss". He focused his piercing gaze once again at John. "Jim Moriarty was his boss, wasn't he?"

John hadn't talked much about his time as Moriarty's henchman – not even to Sherlock, who just seemed to think that, as long as it didn't concern a case, John didn't have to talk about it, for which the doctor was grateful. But this – this development meant that he had to remember, that he had to talk about it.

And naturally, being Mycroft, Sherlock's brother had asked the question he had wanted to ask, but not directly. John answered it anyway. "He was in love with Moriarty. I think he thought that, if he only waited long enough, Moriarty would return his feelings. And maybe he slept with him, I don't know".

"So he is not simply trying to prove a point – stand in my way and you die – but he wants to avenge the death of a loved one." Mycroft's eyes bored into John's. "I have pulled Moran's file - It wasn't easy, not even for me, which proves that it would be almost impossible for everyone else."

He stood up and, to John's surprise, handed him the file instead of Sherlock, who, for once, raised no objection.

John opened the file and read the first page.

Tours in Iraq and in Afghanistan – he even got a few medals – and several recommendations. Quite a few secret missions too, and all concluded satisfactory. John shook his head. "That is the career of an honourable soldier".

Mycroft nodded and twirled his ever-present umbrella in his hand. "He did well up to a certain point, there can be no doubt of that. But there are some trees which grow to a certain height and then suddenly develop some unsightly eccentricity. You may observe the same tendency in some humans. Something in his blood, or maybe in his upbringing, who can say, ultimately led him to a life of crime. Without any open scandal, he still made it impossible for himself to stay in the army, so he retired and returned to London. He might have stayed a petty criminal, however, if he hadn't met Jim Moriarty". Mycroft looked at John, raising an eyebrow, and this time, it really wasn't difficult to realized what the older Holmes thought. John swallowed. Sherlock frowned.

"Mycroft, why are you here?"

"Can't I be concerned about my brother and his best friend when a sniper decides to target them? Plus, I wanted to bring you the file."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll ask again: Why are you here instead of organizing a better surveillance?"

"Ah, now we understand each other. Don't worry, Sherlock, I have already arranged a better surveillance – don't bother looking for them, John, you won't see them. Nothing will happen to either of you". He looked at his watch. "Now, if you excuse me, I have an appointment at Downing Street".

He stood up and left, Sherlock having adopted his thinking pose and not looking at his brother, while John stood up and walked over to the window, only to hear, "John, he is a sniper. I wouldn't stand there if I were you".

"Of course". He walked back to the sofa and sat down, clearing his throat. "Sherlock..." But the consulting detective was already lost in his mind palace. "Sherlock!"

His best friend turned around.

"I am not going to wait here until Mycroft's people catch Moran. This is between him and me, and I am with you every step of the way".

The consulting detective's eyes sparkled. "I wouldn't have it any other way". They smiled at one another, and John sighed with relief. At least he would be able to watch Sherlock's back.

"Moran must have a plan" Sherlock announced. "You don't leave a note like that unless you have a plan, and he learned from the best. The question is – what is the plan?"

John, who was on his way to the kitchen to make tea, turned around and looked at him, confused. "What do you mean? Moran isn't Moriarty. He wants to kill me. Plain and simple. Not everyone has to have a diabolical plan, Sherlock".

"No, I suppose not..."

The consulting detective's eyes followed John into the kitchen. He was trying to hide (and apparently succeeding) how worried he was; he might not be a dangerous as Moriarty had been, but Moran had been in the army and he was an excellent fighter and sniper. And, if he had been as besotted as John seemed to think – and John was a better judge of such matters than him – he had probably hung around the consulting criminal a lot, and picked up some of his tricks.

John didn't seem particularly concerned, and it was likely the adrenaline the death threat hanging over his head gave him was doing him some good. And yet –

The doctor wasn't completely healthy. Not yet. He wouldn't admit it, of course, but Sherlock could tell that the wound still bothered. In time, his would disappear completely – but that might be another reason Moran had decided to set his plan in motion now. When John was still vulnerable, or as vulnerable as the ex-army doctor could get.

Normally, Sherlock wouldn't have called Mycroft – but this was his friend that was threatened. His only friend. The only person who would and had taken a bullet for him. And he had to keep him safe.

He got a text. It was from Lestrade – or Greg, Sherlock had decided not to delete his first name.

_I tried to get my hand on Moran's service records. Any idea why I can't access them?  
GL_

The DI wasn't as intolerable as the rest of the imbeciles at Scotland Yard, Sherlock would give him that. He listened to the consulting detective, for example.

So he decided to answer.

_I have the file here.  
SH_

Lestrade needed less than a minute to reply.

_Mycroft?  
GL_

Sherlock almost snorted; could he really think of another explanation?

_Of course.  
SH_

The DI needed even less time to type his last message (impressive, considering he'd needed several minutes for a simple "I need you" when Sherlock had started working with him).

_On my way.  
GL_

"Let the kettle on, Greg is coming" Sherlock shouted. John emerged with two cups and raised an eyebrow. "You actually listen to what I have to say?"

"If there aren't more important things that require my undivided attention".

John shot him an exasperated look that wasn't without fondness; he recognized it from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and realized with surprised that he wasn't annoyed by it anymore.

Lestrade came half an hour later.

"We didn't find anything on the rooftop – although you were right, Adair was definitely shot from there. But we have nothing to connect anyone with his murder".

Sherlock handed him the file as he settled down on the sofa. He read it through and then put it down, looking at Sherlock and John.

"Catching him won't be easy".

"No" Sherlock admitted.

The DI nodded and stood up, walking to the window and looking out, then turning around and returning to the sofa. Sherlock huffed.

"If you have questions, Lestrade, then ask. Your pacing hinders my thought process".

The DI swallowed and nodded, but didn't look at Sherlock. Instead, he looked in the doctor's eyes.

"John..." he said slowly. "I know that it may be difficult to remember, living with Sherlock, but I'm not stupid. There has been no "soldier's reunion" where you could have met Moran. And, although I'm sure I would find some report about an accident you had – being friends with the little brother of the British Government has its advantages – I recognized the way you moved. You were shot. In the chest, I'd say. So, please, tell me: How do you know Moran?"

John stared at Sherlock, who looked surprised for once.


	4. Chapter 4

John stared at Greg, cursing his stupidity. He really had spent too much time around Sherlock while recovering, first at hospital and then at 221B – not that he'd minded, but apparently the consulting detective was starting to rub off on him. Greg wasn't dumb, and he'd certainly seen enough gunshot victims to notice how they moved, when they winced. And the lie he'd told at the crime scene hadn't been convincing. Really, he shouldn't have supposed that Greg would believe him simply because they had become friends in the last few months.

He looked at the floor, the window, anywhere really but at Greg, and the DI cleared his throat. "Is it – where you in the same unit after all?"

There was a certain tremor in his voice, and John understood. Greg thought he had had special training too. He shook his head.

"No – no. The truth is..." He took a deep breath. How could he explain something that even for him, after several months in 221B, seemed almost unbelievable? How could he make Greg understand that, despite everything he'd done, he couldn't bring himself to regret it, not one minute, because it had brought him where he wanted to be? How could he tell him that he'd almost been the instrument of destroying Sherlock?

The consulting detective seemed to sense his confusion and said "John..." but he shook his head. "No. It was my mistake, and I have to tell Greg about it myself."

So he looked the DI in the eyes and began. "I don't think that you've ever heard about someone called Moriarty..."

During the next hour, he explained, or tried to explain, everything that had happened; how he'd met Moran in a bar; how he had called the doctor in the middle of the night, and he'd come running and treated a young man who'd obviously been shot; how Jim had shown up and told him that they could be "useful to one another"; how he'd treated Jim's associates, or his victims, had helped Sebastian to get rid of bodies once or twice, cleaned the wounds of torture victims between "sessions" as Moran had called it, even about the bank robbery; hoe he'd tried to warn Sherlock; how he had helped in "The Great Game" – and he knew from Sherlock that Greg had assisted him (although the consulting detective hadn't used that word) with the cases; how the game had ended at the pool. He concealed nothing, and he embellished nothing.

Sherlock, uncharacteristically, was silent while he talked; he was staring at Greg, trying to read his thoughts.

After John had stopped talking, Greg run a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. "So. Let me get this straight. You worked for this Moriarty, the "consulting criminal" alongside Sebastian Moran".

"Yes" John said simply. He had given all the information he could; now it was Greg's turn to tell him what he thought about it.

"But you didn't want to".

"Never".

Greg nodded. "I believe you". He stood up and started pacing again, Sherlock wisely deciding not to tell him that it was hindering his thought processes.

"And yet you did it".

"Yes". There was simply nothing else to say. He had explained that Moriarty had threatened his sister and Sherlock and him – but he would understand if Greg didn't believe him.

"And you – you helped kidnap these poor people."

This time, John didn't answer; there was no need to. "And then you – "Greg swallowed. "I'm sorry. I have to leave. I need to clear my head." And he went out, John automatically moving to follow him, but stopping when he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm.

"Let him go. Mycroft is keeping an eye on all my – on all my friends, don't worry. And isn't that what normal people do after a fight? Give each other time to think it over?"

John turned around and smiled shakily at Sherlock. "I don't think this could be called a "fight" – I simply told him the truth".

"Then he'll learn to live with it" Sherlock answered simply. "Based on the fact alone that he figured out that there was more to you than meets the eye, he's definitely more intelligent than most of the population."

John felt a strange mixture of concern for his friend, relief at Sherlock's words (despite him definitely not being an expert when it came to "normal people" and their emotions – he obviously thought Greg only had to think about everything for some time, without considering what he'd feel) and a strange pride that the consulting detective had just told him there was more to him than met the eye.

But it was difficult to put all that in words, so he nodded and went back in the kitchen to make more tea.

Sherlock grabbed his violin; he needed the music to help him think. Maybe he would be able to figure out Moran's plan after all.

Greg, in the meantime, was wandering aimlessly around, shocked at what he'd heard. Strangely, he felt that he didn't think John Watson a worse man for what he'd done – before realizing that this had one reason.

Without John Watson, Sherlock Holmes would almost certainly have died at the pool. Or been captured by Moriarty. Or emotionally destroyed by him. He couldn't decide which idea was worse.

And if there was one thing Greg was grateful for, despite everything, it was his connection to Sherlock Holmes.

His marriage was failing, his colleagues thought him had, and he had hardly any close friends, but still...

He and Sherlock had clicked, although in a different way than Sherlock and John had apparently. He was fond of him, and sometimes he thought that Sherlock liked him too. And he could have lost him at the pool.

God knows what would have happened between Sherlock and Moriarty (God knew, Sherlock was irresponsible enough to go to his biggest enemy without backup and unarmed) had Fate not decided to intervene in the form of an ex-army doctor, who had been forced to work for a consulting criminal – and yet decided to give his life for Sherlock in the end. He had only survived because he'd been lucky.

Greg had made his decision. He took out his phone and called John.

The doctor was sitting in his chair, drinking another cup of tea, listening to Sherlock's music – he was playing actual music for once – when his phone rang. He answered it and the music stopped, Sherlock (of course) knowing who it was.

"John" Greg said, slowly, "Sorry for storming out".

Because he didn't know what else to say, John answered "Thanks – sorry for lying?"

Greg chuckled, and John smiled.

"Well, mate you are full of surprises – as if living with Sherlock Holmes voluntarily wasn't enough to make me respect you. I'm going to the station – at least we have Moran's picture now. I will try to find someone who's seen him since the pool".

"Thanks Greg".

"It's my job. Bye."

"Bye" and John would have hung up, had Greg not suddenly said "And – John?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you".

The DI hung up and John smiled.

"And, what did he say?" Sherlock drawled, as if he hadn't already guessed through John's mimic.

"He's okay with it – or as far as he can be".

"And what did he say right before he hung up that made you grin?"

"He thanked me".

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "For telling the truth?"

"I don't think so, Sherlock" John said softly. "I think he thanked me for taking a bullet for you at the pool. He's your friend, you know".

Sherlock looked at John as if this was a new concept for him, then he nodded.

"So" the doctor asked, "What is the plan?"

"We find Moran" Sherlock answered, as though it was obvious.

John rolled his eyes. "Good idea, but... how?"

"Moriarty was an expert in deleting his tracks, but Moran – "

"You couldn't find Moran during the last few months either" John pointed out.

"But now we have something to go on."

"We do?"

Sherlock sighed. "The gun, John, the gun! He must either have made it himself or he had it made... If we could trace it..."

"We don't even know what it looked like" John said.

"But we have the bullet." Sherlock said excitedly. "Let's go to St Bart's and see whether this idiot Anderson has managed not to destroy it."

They got in a cab, John trying not to look over his shoulder every five minutes. Sherlock, naturally, seemed perfectly composed.

They soon arrived at the hospital and went to the lab where Molly was waiting. John greeted her politely; over the last few months, he had taken a liking to the obviously infatuated pathologist. Sherlock nodded.

"Molly, do you happen to know if Anderson is still working on the bullet found on the site of Ronald Adair's murder?"

"I think he's finished... Shall I get it for you?"

"Yes, please" Sherlock answered, despite John shooting him a look that clearly told him not to. The doctor sighed and said, "Molly, I'll come with you." He added to Sherlock, "I'll see if Mike's in his office. Chat a bit".

Sherlock nodded, already lost in his thoughts, and Molly smiled and shuffled out of the lab, John behind her.

"How are you?" he asked her as they made their way along the corridor.

"I'm fine, thanks" she answered. "And how is living with Sherlock?"

"Same as always – I'm never bored". They smiled and continued making small talk until they arrived at the evidence lab and Molly went in to retrieve the bullet while John made his way to Mike's office.

His old friend was glad to see him, especially since he believed that he had been the one to introduce Sherlock and John. They chatted about nothing in particular (mostly about Mike's girlfriend and his students) and John felt some of the tension he'd felt since finding the note leave his body. Mike always had that effect on him; it was simply nice to talk to someone completely normal from time to time.

In the meantime, Sherlock was working on the bullet. It was, as John had observed, something you'd rather put in a small calibre pistol, not a sniper rifle. Based on this, Sherlock concluded that the rifle itself must be rather small, easy to dismantle and conceal. So, all in all, good news. There were not many people who could build such a rifle – and have it work.

But, on the other hand...

If Moran had a rifle he could easily conceal and shoot from almost anywhere...

John might be in even greater danger than Sherlock had thought.


	5. Chapter 5

When John entered the lab after having said goodbye to Mike and promised to visit him and his girlfriend soon, Sherlock was texting on his phone, which could only mean one thing.

"You've figured out how the rifle looks like then?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, not interrupting his task. "Light, small, easy to conceal".

"Well, that makes me feel better. A weapon that someone can carry around without being noticed" John commented, slowly walking over to the table and looking at the bullet. Sherlock said nothing.

"Who are you texting?"

"Mycroft. He knows every man capable to build such a rifle".

"Of course he does". John leaned against a table and ran a hand through his hair. So far for normality.

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "John, are you alright?"

"Of course I am. Nothing like a deeply disturbed sniper to give you all the adrenaline you need". John chuckled humourlessly, and Sherlock frowned. "You do know this is not your fault?"

"Yes, I do. But there's a difference between knowing and feeling, Sherlock".

Surprisingly, Sherlock nodded and simply went back to texting. After he'd put away his phone, he said, "There's nothing we can do until we get more information. We might as well return to Baker Street". John followed, because his friend was right – there was nothing else to do.

At least he thought so during the cab ride and for a few blissful hours at 221 B. Sherlock did an experiment in the kitchen, John tried to watch crap telly and relax, although it was difficult not to think about Moran.

What had he been thinking about when he wrote "IOU"? Simply killing John? Torturing him? No idea was particularly pleasant, and the doctor soon realized that he wasn't paying attention to the telly anyway, so he decided to attempt to read.

Needless to say, he didn't really succeed – and neither did Sherlock, for that matter. He grumbled more than he usually did, and at one point threw something that John was sure was a petri dish against the wall. This case was bothering the consulting detective as much as him.

And then John Watson got a text from Sebastian Moran, and once again he was forced to lie to Sherlock Holmes.

At first, he thought it was from Greg or Molly or even Mike – his old friend must have realized he was on edge – but no.

_Café across the street. Don't worry about your bodyguards, I've sent them on a goose change. Oh, and should you happen to tell your dear consulting detective anything – you do realize that the kitchen is visible through the living room window?_   
_S_

John swallowed, knowing all too well what the message implied. It was true; the table Sherlock sat on was indeed visible through the living room window – especially if you happened to be in the still empty building on the other side of the street, where Moriarty had planted the bomb that had started the game, and Moran might be waiting at the café, but if he had taken over Moriarty's web, he had more than enough henchmen...

Mycroft was most likely busy searching for the man who'd built the rifle, and Moran would definitely be able to trick his team. He might not be Moriarty, but he was clever enough – he wouldn't have been chosen for special training otherwise.

He took a deep, shaky breath, and Sherlock apparently noticed, because he wanted to know what was going on.

"Nothing. Sarah just texted me – she just got of her shift and wants to have coffee to catch up. Don't worry – Mycroft's surveillance, remember? I'll be back before you know it".

"Alright" Sherlock replied, looking back into his microscope, and John didn't know whether he should be worried that the consulting detective had once again trusted him.

He left the flat and went to the café. As soon as he entered, he knew why Mycroft's people – at least as long as they'd been watching the street – hadn't recognized Moran.

The last time he'd seen him, during Moriarty's "game", the sniper certainly hadn't been brunette and blue-eyed – and he looked a few inches shorter too, so he must be a rather good actor. But John would know the look he shot him anywhere – there was only one person in London who would look at him so full of hatred, and it was Sebastian Moran.

With a strange feeling of history repeating himself – why was he always forced to lie to the person he trusted the most? – John sat down opposite the new most dangerous criminal of London.

Moran smiled humourlessly. "John".

"Sebastian" John replied, as calmly as he could.

"Don't worry, I won't kill you – at least not yet". There was no doubt in John's mind that it was Moran's ultimate goal, though; he probably just wanted to make him suffer before he did it.

"Well, that's some comfort – but why?" he asked.

"You took the most important person in my life away from me" Sebastian answered, and John couldn't resist to anger him some more, even though he shouldn't. After all, he'd just said he wouldn't kill the doctor, hadn't he?

"Don't you mean the person you loved?" he inquired.

Sebastian's jaw tensed, he brought his hand up to wipe his mouth, and John's gaze couldn't fail to notice how it shook –

He would recognize that tremor anywhere.

Maybe he and Sebastian had more in common than he'd thought. A shiver ran down his spine.

"That's none of your business" Sebastian spat. His eyes narrowed, and John had the feeling that the sniper was trying to find a weak spot, to find a way he could hurt John as much as the doctor had hurt him.

He was right. "You should know – you're living with Sherlock Holmes, of all people".

"I do – but he's my best friend. I'm not in love with him, desperately hoping to make him love me through sheer determination" John replied, feeling sweat trickle down his back.

Sebastian's hand suddenly shot forwards and grabbed John's right wrist. He'd underestimated the sniper's reactions – as Sherlock would say, "stupid".

The most dangerous criminal in London pulled, and John thought it better to comply. As soon as he was near enough, Sebastian whispered in his ear, "You may not be. But, as you said, he is the most important person in your life. And your limp hasn't returned, John, so he must provide you with enough adrenaline to get through the day. Just imagine, for one moment, if this – Sherlock, the cases, everything – were taken away from you".

John started to breathe heavily. Of course. He'd been so stupid; he should've known that Sebastian's threat wasn't directed directly at him.

He was going to kill Sherlock.

No: he was going to try to kill Sherlock. Because there was no way John would allow it.

Apparently Sebastian thought the same because he let go of John's hand and added, as soon as the doctor had settled back in his chair, "And it will be. In three days, nothing of the life you have built up for yourself will be left".

"And why are you warning me?" John inquired.

"Because" Sebastian said, slowly, "no one will believe you".

"And what makes you think that?" John's confidence was returning by the minute; Sherlock knew the truth, Greg knew the truth, Mycroft knew the truth – there was no way Sebastian could make them believe he'd lied to them.

The sniper smiled, as if he was able to read John's thoughts. "Wait and see, John. I usually deliver on my promises – especially now. Oh, and – you might tell Sherlock what I just said. I'll be long gone by the time you do, of course – the only reason I told you to lie to him before was because I'm not particularly keen on getting caught by big brother – or you taking his side at the last moment, either. I'm not going to make the same mistake Jim made". He looked pained, and John, despite everything, felt pity for this man who had fallen in love with a psychopath and was trying to take revenge for the man he'd loved, who would never have done the same for him. If Sebastian had died, Jim would simply have got a new "pet" and forgot all about the sniper.

And, to his everlasting shame, he felt a strange pride at the same time – if Sebastian would shoot him now, Sherlock wouldn't rest until he'd caught him, he was sure.

"Three days" Sebastian hissed and stood up, ready to leave. John couldn't say whether he'd read the pity in his eyes or was just tired of their talk – Moriarty had often lost interest, sometimes even in the middle of a sentence.

"Suppose I would call Mycroft now" he said.

"Suppose Sherlock would be dead before you'd dialled the number" Sebastian replied and strolled out of the café.

John returned to Baker Street a few minutes later and explained everything to Sherlock. The consulting detective wasn't pleased.

"Why didn't you call me, or Lestrade, or even Mycroft? John, simply because he threatened my life – this is ridiculous!"

John was just going to give a rather heated reply when Sherlock's phone rang. He answered sounding still angry. "Yes? Of course. How could I refuse?"

He hung up and looked at John. "Are you coming, or do you want to spend your last three days differently – or mine, for that matter?"

The doctor decided to ignore the bite in the question and simply answered "Of course I'll come", which seemed to take Sherlock slightly aback – he even looked slightly ashamed when he went to put on his coat, and John shook his head. No matter what happened, he would never be able to stay angry at Sherlock Holmes for long.

Greg was waiting for them when they arrived at the crime scene – a public park.

"The body, or rather the skeleton, was found an hour ago – must have been dumped here less than two hours ago."

He led them to the dumping site; the skeleton was lying on his back, and as John watched Sherlock kneel down next to it, he couldn't help but feel that, no matter what Moran's game was, he would be alright, as long as he stayed at his best friend's sight.


	6. Chapter 6

While they were walking towards the body, following Greg, John grabbed Sherlock's arm and forced him to stop. Greg, proving once again that he was a good friend, went on, pretending not to realize that they had stopped.

"Sherlock" John hissed "should we tell Greg?"

"Tell him what?" Sherlock asked.

"About Moran, of course!" John exclaimed, barely able to keep his voice down.

"No" Sherlock replied, "It's too dangerous". And, just like that, the doctor understood, better than ever before, that Sherlock cared for Greg, just like the DI cared for Sherlock. The consulting detective simply had a different way to show it than most people.

"Yes. Yes, of course it is" he answered, nodding, and Sherlock seemed once again surprised that someone would understand him that well, would realize what he meant without him needing to explain what was going through his head.

There was nothing else to say, and they went on, walking towards the body. Greg awaited them in front of the crime scene tape. Sherlock held the tape up for John and immediately went to the body, the doctor slowly following him and stopping a few feet away from the consulting detective to give him enough space for his deductions.

Greg walked over and came to stand beside John while Sherlock was investigating the body. Despite their earlier conversation, he still seemed unsure, and the doctor couldn't help but like him for it.

"John..." he said slowly, "I just have to – are we alright?"

John smiled. "Of course we are" he answered. "It's fine, it's all fine".

Greg nodded and returned his smile. "A pint in the pub as soon as Sherlock finds out what happened to this guy?"

"Sure". John nodded and the two friends smiled at each other. At least there was still some normality in his life.

"John!" Sherlock called, oblivious to the conversation that had just taken place. The doctor went over to the body and kneeled down.

"Yes?"

"Any idea to the cause of death?"

"You know, Sherlock, we have a whole team," Greg interrupted, though he apparently wasn't hopeful that the consulting detective would allow anyone else to come near the body.

Sherlock didn't even answer, instead he focused on John who was inspecting the skeleton.

"Dead about a year, I would say" the doctor explained, "but left here, as Greg said, only a short time ago. A man, definitely – rather young". John hesitated, wondering why he had the feeling that he had seen this skeleton before – it was just a skeleton after all, and he had seen many of those during his medical training, although he'd never thought – no, he was just being silly. Better not tell Sherlock, he'd never hear the end of it.

Sherlock nodded, talking while he got down on his knees to inspect the ground around the body, "Why would someone suddenly drag the body out of its hiding place – we have to assume it was hidden, or it would have been found sooner – and bring it where it had to be found? There must be a reason..."

John ignored his friend – Sherlock would tell him what had happened and what to do soon enough – and concentrated on the skeleton again. There was a small nick on one of the ribs... not defined enough for a knife, but –

Under the skeleton in the grass he found what he was looking for. "He was shot".

"How do know this?" Greg asked, while Sherlock looked almost proud of his friend.

"There's a nick on one of his left ribs – and a bullet under the body."

Sherlock frowned, and John wanted to ask what was wrong when he realized.

"The bullet shouldn't be here" he exclaimed, looking at Sherlock. "It should be wherever the body was concealed before being brought here – the bullet was stuck in the flesh, and when it decayed it would have fallen down..."

"Exactly" Sherlock answered, suddenly a lot more interested in the case. "So whoever moved the body collected the body. He wanted us to find it. The question is – why? Someone who knew where the body was concealed certainly knew enough about it to simply call the police."

"Maybe he or she was afraid of someone?" John suggested, looking over the body once more to make sure they hadn't overlooked anything – not that they would have with Sherlock being present.

"Possible. We have to find out the identity of the victim" Sherlock replied, and John, standing up, could see Greg rolling his eyes behind Sherlock's back and hid a smile. As if the DI wouldn't know that you had to identify a body found in a park.

"Anyway, we're off. Come on, John, I won't be able to stand Donavan and Anderson today" and Sherlock strode away, John shooting Greg an apologetic look before shuffling after him.

"What..." he started to ask, realizing that Sherlock must already have a clue what was going on; normally he spent more time with a body, especially one that had obviously been dead for some time.

"Think, John, think. Why should a body just happen to show up right after Moran talked to you and told you he was going to have his revenge?"

John's eyebrows rose. "You mean... the body is connected to Moran?"

"Most likely" Sherlock replied. "How this is supposed to help his plan, however, I have no idea".

While it was comforting in a way to know that even the world's only consulting detective didn't know what was going on, John still worried about Moran. What was the sniper doing? He must realize that dumping a body – or rather a skeleton – in an abandoned park must put him right on Sherlock's radar, must in fact give John's friend clues how to find him or even prove him guilty of the man's death. But then – why do it? Why give Sherlock a chance? If anything, John would've suspected an attack at the crime scene, but nothing had happened.

Sherlock got a cab and they rode back to 221B, the consulting detective wanting to finish the experiment that had been interrupted first by John's news about his meeting with Moran and then by Greg's call.

As it turned out, he couldn't get back to it immediately because Mycroft was waiting for them. Really, John should have expected it (Sherlock probably had) – his team had let the doctor out of his sight, after all, and the elder Holmes cared for his brother's well being, emotionally as well as physically, even if he tried not to let it show.

"Sherlock, John. I assure you that I am very sorry for the mistake my team made earlier and ensure you that the persons responsible have already been dealt with".

Once again, John Watson thanked God that Mycroft Holmes was on his side – or, at least, on his brother's side.

"However" he added, "while the café has security cameras, Moran knew where to sit, so I need John to tell me what they talked about".

Sherlock grimaced, annoyed that his brother had to know, while John was more than ready to give Mycroft all the information he needed to put Moran behind bars. Sherlock was in danger, he didn't doubt it; Moran was ready to do anything just to cause him pain and –

With a sudden jolt, he realized he had forgotten someone. Someone he should have been thinking of the whole time.

Mycroft, probably even better at reading thoughts as his brother was, answered his unspoken question.

"Miss Watson has been placed under surveillance as well – as soon as Sherlock told me about Moran's note, in fact."

John sighed, relieved, and just a little bit ashamed. Then, before Sherlock could say anything, he explained what had passé between him and the sniper.

Mycroft nodded. "And you have no idea what Moran could plan to do in three days' time?"

John automatically looked at Sherlock. "Well..."

Mycroft twirled his umbrella in his right hand. "While I appreciate your concern, John, I think that Moran would know that Sherlock can't be killed that easily, especially" he shot his younger brother a stern glance "if he does what he's told".

Before Sherlock could answer, he stood up. "Excuse me, but an old friend is awaiting me". He strolled out, Sherlock rolling his eyes.

"Really, you could almost think that the country would be lost without my brother".

"Wouldn't it?"

"Perhaps" Sherlock answered, taking out his phone that had started to ring. "But why should I give him the satisfaction of admitting it?"

He talked briefly to whoever was on the phone and hung up. "Lestrade. They have identified the body. I'm almost impressed – that was rather quick for Scotland Yard".

John followed Sherlock wordlessly back to the Yard where Greg led them to his office.

"The victim was reported missing by his parent two years ago – we think he left their house and starting living on the street; because he was of age, no one bothered looking for him. His name was Timothy Wallace. He was twenty-three years old".

Normally, John would have noticed Sherlock's intake of breath, but he couldn't, because he saw the picture of the dead man and –

He suddenly knew what Moran's plan was. His right hand clenched as he remembered –

_"Why don't you put the gun down and we talk about it?" John tried. "Maybe – "_

_But the young man was shaking his head, panic making his hand shake even more._

_"I can't"._

_And John knew that he was going to shoot, saw as in slow-motion how his finger was tightening on the trigger –_

_He shot without thinking, and the young man fell down, dead before he hit the ground, a bullet in his heart._

He had been forced to help Moran get rid of the body – they had dumped it at another abandoned building that Moriarty owned, but didn't use anymore, and, from what Moran had told him, John had gathered that there must be several bodies hidden on the premises.

And now Moran had decided to let one reappear –

To let the world know that John Watson had killed a man in London less than a year ago.


	7. Chapter 7

Greg noticed something was wrong immediately. John was staring at the picture of the victim in a way that told him the doctor had seen him before. Sherlock's reaction was more subtle, but he had known the consulting detective for almost six years now and knew when he was shocked.

"What's going on?" he asked slowly, looking from Sherlock to John.

Sherlock frowned. "He was part of my homeless network. Quite useful, in fact. When he disappeared I assumed he had left town..."

He trailed off when he saw John's face, having until this moment been to occupied with searching through the information he had on Timothy in his mind palace (embarrassingly little, but then again, he had simply been an operative of his homeless network, and it was pure luck that he hadn't deleted the information long ago).

John had to sit down. This had been – unexpected, to say the least, and it didn't really make sense. Why would Moran suddenly drag up a body that couldn't be tied to John?

But first he had to tell his friends. He looked up. "Do you remember that I told you about a man I shot while I was working for Moriarty because he would have short Moran if I hadn't? A young, apparently homeless man?"

Sherlock nodded, comprehending immediately, of course; Greg needed a little longer. He looked at John and said, "Sure, but – " he trailed off and his eyes wandered to the picture. A moment later he had to sit down as well.

"So you are telling me..."

John nodded. "I'm afraid so, yes".

"But why?" Sherlock murmured. "What could Moran possibly gain from – " His eyes widened. "Of course, the bullet!"

"The bullet?" John asked, confused.

"John" Sherlock replied, slowly and patiently which really should have told the doctor something was wrong, come to think of it, "Moran was careful to leave the bullet with the body when there was no reason too, unless he wanted it to be found."

John's breath caught at the same time in his throat as Greg's eyes widened.

The DI was the first to ask what they all thought. "John, what did you do with the gun?"

And, just like that, John understood. "I..." He tried hard to remember where he had last seen his gun. Since Sherlock seemed to think shooting at the wall a good way to pass the time when he was bored, John usually kept it hidden (not that it mattered, Sherlock found it anyway). But, nowadays, the doctor kept his gun at home – when he had been working for Moriarty, he had always had it near him...

"I don't know" he confessed, and, surprisingly, it was Greg who exploded.

"Really? You shot a man and didn't even get rid of the weapon? How could you be so stupid?"

"At the time it didn't seem important" John shot back. "There were more important things to worry about. Plus, how should I have known that Moran would dump a body just to take his revenge on me?"

Greg looked taken aback at first, then swallowed. "Of course. Sorry. I didn't mean to – "

"It's alright" John replied, feeling ashamed already. Greg had forgiven him for lying to him, and now he was angry because the DI had pointed out what was obvious. He shook his head.

"I should have known that Moran was planning something. But, as long as the gun is – "

"You don't even know where it is" Sherlock interrupted, clearly concerned (and if John hadn't been scared before, that certainly did the trick). "What if Moran – "

"Wouldn't Mycroft's people – " John tried, but Sherlock interrupted him yet again.

"John. Think. When was the last time you needed the gun before we found the note?"

John tried to concentrate, which admittedly wasn't easy with Sherlock's gaze boring into him. "I can't say exactly..." He rubbed his face with his right hand. "When we caught the smuggler? You know, the one who tried to sell Greek antiquities? He would've run if I hadn't – "

"Thanks, John, that's quite enough" Greg said, apparently hoping to hear as little as possible about the ways Sherlock apprehended subjects. "But when?"

"That would have been..." But of course Sherlock had the answer.

"A week ago, in fact a week and thirty-seven minutes".

John nodded. "That could be right..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am right. The question is, where is the gun now?"

"In my bedroom drawer. But wouldn't Mycroft..."

"Mycroft was at a WHO conference last week, and, as we know from experience, his surveillance teams are easily tricked..." Sherlock stopped talking, looking into the distance. Then he turned around and left without a word.

John attempted to apologize to Greg, but the DI would hear none of it. "Go. I don't want..." He trailed off, looking at John worriedly. The doctor needed no explanation and ran after Sherlock.

The consulting detective had already disappeared by the time he left Scotland Yard, so he flagged down a cab himself and arrived at their flat shortly afterwards.

By the time he made it to his bedroom Sherlock had already emptied his cupboard and was making his way through his sock drawer.

"Sherlock..."

"It's not there" he answered shortly without interrupting his search. The doctor knew he would just be an annoyance to Sherlock so he simply went back to the living room, trying to remember where he could have left his gun. After a while, he heard the consulting detective stop in his frantic search – although he doubted he would have called it that – and take out his phone. It didn't take a genius to figure out who he was calling. The subsequent conversation proved the doctor right.

"Mycroft? I need your reports for the last week... You know what reports I am talking about. I expect them within half an hour".

Sherlock hung up and strode into the living room.

John sat down, looking at his friend. A thought occurred to him. "Sherlock... Let's say Moran has the gun. So what? It wasn't exactly legal anyway... It's not registered to me".

"I know."

"So..." John prompted, trying to understand why the consulting detective still looked more worried than he'd ever seen him, with the possible exception of the night at the pool.

"John" Sherlock answered, slowly, with a look that clearly told the doctor he was trying his best to stay patient, but wouldn't manage to do for much longer, "Fingerprints".

He didn't need to elaborate. John understood. He exhaled slowly.

"Exactly" Sherlock replied. "And I would be right to assume that your fingerprints are in your service record?"

John nodded. "In case they are needed for identification..." He rubbed a hand over his face. "So Moran is probably going to bring the gun to the police..."

"It's probably hidden in the park somewhere... I should have looked around more". Sherlock was clearly annoyed with himself, and John shook his head. "It's not your fault; the park is rather big. But, should the police find it..."

Mycroft walked into the flat, interrupting John, and for once not bothering to keep up the pretence that he didn't have a key.

He gave the surveillance files to Sherlock, who immediately started to go through them. Because it was obvious he wouldn't tell his brother what was going on, John decided to fill Mycroft, who had once again occupied his chair, in on what had happened.

The British Government glanced at the files in Sherlock's hands. "If Moran remains at large I might have to hire a whole new set of surveillance experts".

"Good" Sherlock snapped, "Yours don't seem to do a very good job".

"Sherlock" John interrupted, but Mycroft waved a hand. "I'm used to my brother's manners, or lack thereof, John".

Sherlock sighed, throwing the files on the table.

"Either John and I didn't leave the flat to go to a crime scene on that Monday around midday, or your surveillance team decided to have lunch".

For the first time since John had met him, Mycroft looked angry – just for a second before his face became the usual blank mask, but it was enough to convince the doctor that he had been right about the British Government all along. He was almost sorry for the surveillance team. Almost.

"About the gun" Mycroft said. "It would no doubt be possible for me to arrange to have John's fingerprints deleted from his service record until Moran is caught."

"And what if someone wanted to check it out?" John asked.

"Then it would be marked as "Classified" and inaccessible" Mycroft replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and perhaps it was. John wanted to thank the older Holmes when Sherlock's phone rang. It was Greg.

Sherlock spoke with him for less than a minute, but it was clear what had happened.

They had found the gun.


	8. Chapter 8

For a moment, they were silent. Then Mycroft started to say, "That doesn't mean..." when Sherlock's phone rang yet again.

He looked at his phone and said "Anderson has identified the gun as John's."

The doctor cursed inwardly; he shouldn't have let anyone see the gun, but two months ago, he had to rescue Sherlock from some smugglers, and they wouldn't have let go the consulting detective without John showing (but not using) his weapon, and he made the mistake of putting it into his coat pocket before Anderson (granted, he didn't think the forensic tech saw it, but still, it was rather stupid of him).

Somehow, for once, the doctor could tell what Mycroft wanted to say before he did.

The older Holmes twirled his umbrella and bit his lip (in fact, it was the only time John had ever seen him embarrassed).

"You have to realize that now, when John's name has already turned up in the investigation..."

"Of course we understand" John answered, despite Sherlock looking like he rather wanted to protest. Mycroft couldn't delete his fingerprints now; not when someone at Scotland Yard was probably already busy pulling his service record. They would know immediately that it had been tempered with. Moran had really done his best, John had to admit that.

"But – " Sherlock started to object, but Mycroft was already leaving; the older Holmes didn't bother to apologize; there was no need to, despite what Sherlock might think. Moran was taking his revenge on John (and his best friend), Mycroft had nothing to do with it. John would simply have to deal with the fact that the body that had shown up could be tied to him.

Maybe, he reflected, it was karma; after all, he had come when Sebastian called him, without stopping to think, and had treated a gunshot victim, and he had continued to work for Moriarty, although he could have called the police anytime. True, he would probably have been dead long before the consulting criminal was arrested, but his life hadn't been worth much anyway before he met Sherlock. Before he met the man who made him want to live.

Before he could think about what he was doing, he was jogging after Mycroft, Moran's words still ringing in his ears. "Mycroft!"

The older Holmes stopped at the end of the stairs and John came to stand beside him.

"Yes, John?"

The doctor swallowed.

"I am aware that you can do nothing for me. But Moran wants me to suffer like he does, and there is only one way he can achieve that".

Mycroft's eyes flicked to the ceiling, and John knew he had understood.

"Make sure the surveillance on Sherlock is good. And arrange for him to leave the country. Please. He has to be safe, Mycroft. I will gladly accept a prison sentence, just – keep him safe."

The British Government was apparently lost for words, then he nodded and left the building. John took a deep breath and climbed up the stairs. He had to explain to his best friend that he had to leave him behind; and, somehow, the thought hurt far worse than he would have expected. He and Sherlock belonged together, had formed a bond, weren't meant to be apart. And yet – it was the only way to foil Moran's plan. The consulting detective had to understand that.

Sherlock, however, wasn't ready to accept the turn events had taken. He immediately jumped up from his chair as soon as Mycroft had left their flat, and started to make several plans, while hurling insults at his brother. John stopped him after two minutes, during which he had been trying but not succeeding to interrupt his friend.

"SHERLOCK!"

The consulting detective looked at him like he had just hit him, and the doctor couldn't blame him. After all, he had never shouted at Sherlock like that – there had been a desperate tone in his voice the consulting detective wasn't used to, and in fact he was desperate. And angry. He was angry at himself because he had allowed himself to become tangled up with Moran and Moriarty; because he had shot a young man who had been nothing but a victim of the most dangerous criminal mind London had ever seen; because he could have walked away all those months ago, could have called someone, could have done something, but didn't.

Because he couldn't resist being someone, leading a dangerous life, and now here he was, paying the prize for not turning the other way while he had the chance.

Once again, looking at an obviously agitated Sherlock, he wished that he had had the fortune of meeting the consulting detective instead of Moran. And to think that they both knew Mike Stamford; really, if he had just met Mike Stamford one day and he had introduced him to the consulting detective...

But wishing things had turned out differently wouldn't change a thing. He had killed a man, and Moran would make sure that he paid for it.

He wondered why he was so calm when Sherlock, notwithstanding his warning, was pacing up and down the living room, mumbling to himself, was apparently desperately trying to find a way out.

And then he realized that he should be doing the same thing.

Because, while he wouldn't mind paying the price for what he'd done –

As soon as he was in jail, Moran would kill Sherlock.

And would make sure that John knew every detail of it.

He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let that happen. He had to fight. He had to –

"Moran made sure that the police find the gun – and, now that this fool Anderson has identified it as belonging to you, they have to check your fingerprints – I'm sure Moran will gladly do it himself. The question is, why would he want you to go to jail?"

John stared at Sherlock. Did the consulting detective really not understand? But Sherlock was still talking.

"Alright, so in the worst possible scenario you go to jail. Mycroft could get you to best attorneys – he could even arrange a break out. Why – "

This time John interrupted him. Of course Sherlock didn't understand, he suddenly realized; despite the fact that the consulting detective knew that Moriarty had threatened his life too to make sure that John obeyed his commands, but chances were he wouldn't understand that making John watch him die was the worst punishment Moran could think of.

In one swift movement, John grabbed Sherlock's wrist. "Sherlock..." He said, trying to make his voice sound more composed than he felt. "Listen to me. You have to talk to Mycroft; you have to get out of London. Moran is going to have me put in jail and you killed, and I couldn't live with that. Please..."

And then, suddenly, Sherlock looked at him like he'd never seen him before.

"John, you can't possibly think that I would just leave you to your fate..."

"You have to!" John almost shouted. "Don't you see, the only way we can foil Moran's plan is by you..."

"Running away? Hiding? For how long, John? And how long would you be in jail?"

"Not for longer than I deserve, I guarantee you".

Not for the first time, Sherlock was surprised by John's honesty. The doctor really believed he deserved to go to jail for shooting Timothy, and while the consulting detective admitted that he shouldn't have, it had been perfectly understandable considering the circumstances. His best friend didn't deserve to go to jail. He needed John at his side. A year ago he hadn't even know of his existence, and now he couldn't imagine life without him. Sentiment. How the doctor had changed his life.

And, no matter what happened, he wouldn't let him go to jail.

"I'm not the one who should leave, John."

John stared at him, determined. "I am not leaving you behind."

"I'm not asking you too, I just want you to hide until – "

"Moran dies of old age? Sherlock, do you really think that's a good idea?"

Sherlock looked as determined as John felt. At this moment the doctor's phone rang.

It was Greg.

"John?" He was whispering; it was obvious the DI didn't want anyone to overhear his call.

"Yes?" He asked as calmly as possible.

"Anderson was quick for once and compared the fingerprints he found on the gun to the ones in your service record. I'm sorry, John – we have to arrest you. Me and Donavan will be there in ten minutes".

It was clear what the DI wanted, and there was a part of John that wanted nothing more than to run away. But if he did, Sherlock would certainly want to accompany him – and no one could protect him then. Moran would find a way to kill him and to make John watch. Sherlock would die and it would be John's fault. Moran would make sure to make good of Moriarty's threat.

He had to let himself be arrested. It was the only way to save Sherlock.

He hung up, exhaling slowly. "That was Greg. They are on their way." He looked at Sherlock. "Please don't do anything. It's alright. It really is".

His eyes grew soft. "Sherlock, just – I want to thank you. For everything."

Before Sherlock could answer, they could hear knocks on the door and Donavan shoving Mrs. Hudson aside as soon as their landlady had gone to look who was there.

Donavan looked very pleased with herself, although she didn't say anything. Greg must have warned her.

The DI climbed up the stairs much more slowly than his Sergeant had done, looking at Sherlock and John in turn, regret in his eyes.

"John Watson, your are under arrest for the murder of Timothy Wallace".


	9. Chapter 9

John didn't say anything. He simply allowed Donavan to cuff him. The Sergeant was apparently happy to do so; then again, she probably thought that this arrest (and therefore the murder he had committed) was simply a consequence of living with Sherlock Holmes.

She had warned John at the first crime scene he had ever visited; had told him that Sherlock didn't have friends and to get another, safer hobby. At the time, it had taken all his willpower not to tell her that Sherlock wasn't the one who deserved to be put in jail; now he didn't have to. She knew, soon everyone would know. Why had he ever let Anderson see his gun?

Sherlock wasn't taking his arrest quite so well.

"This is ridiculous, Lestrade, he is not resisting, why does he have to wear cuffs..."

"Sherlock, please. We have evidence tying him to a murder. We have to..." Greg seemed genially sorry, but naturally, the consulting detective didn't acknowledge it, and Donavan standing beside John looking smug probably didn't help. For a moment, John was afraid Sherlock would hit Greg and lose the one friend he had left now that Moran had had him arrested, but then his best friend bit his lip and suddenly looked like a lost child.

"Greg" he said, and it was not difficult to understand why the DI seemed taken aback, Sherlock never really having called him by his first name before. "Greg, you have to..."

"I'm sorry Sherlock" Greg interrupted, apparently realizing that Sherlock would soon say something that would maybe give Donavan cause to arrest him. For once, the consulting detective seemed to listen, because he followed them down the stairs without another word.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them in front of their flat.

"What's going on? I – " she saw John and her eyes widened. "John? Why are you wearing handcuffs?"

He smiled sadly. "I have been arrested, Mrs. Hudson" he answered as calmly as he could and tried to ignore the shock in his landlady's – no, ex-landlady's, from this day on he wouldn't be living at 211B anymore – face. Of course Mrs. Hudson wouldn't believe it, and she would certainly never believe in his guilt, not even if he were to confess in front of her.

And then, and only then, did he suddenly understand what had happened.

Moran had won.

John had been living the life he hadn't deserved, but nonetheless loved for months; he had found himself a best friend, a fulfilling if rather strange job, a family, and now the sniper had taken all this from him. And John would be spending the rest of his days (or, at the very least, a very long time) in prison, always knowing what had passed him by, constantly fearing for the lives for everyone who meant something to him.

It was the perfect revenge.

Unless...

Unless John escaped, but Sherlock would certainly insist on coming with him, and he wouldn't be able to protect the consulting detective if they were both fugitives.

John hated himself for the realization that, despite everything, he would still prefer a life with Sherlock in danger than they being separated and Sherlock safe.

The consulting detective, as it turned out, had no such scruples.

All in all, John should have foreseen it; as soon as they had started to walk down the stairs, Sherlock had fallen silent, and Mrs. Hudson suddenly went back into her flat and shut the door, which could only be a reaction to a signal from "her boy".

And Sherlock was walking behind Greg.

Just before they reached the door, John heard a cry (a suspiciously quiet cry, though) from the DI and turned around to find Greg on the floor, holding his head, which Sherlock standing above him, the DI's gun in his hand pointing at Donavan, who was too stunned to say or do anything.

"John, we are leaving".

John took one look at Sherlock's face and knew that any protest would be useless. He did, however, his best to look as shocked as Donavan and to act like a hostage, which, since Sherlock had by now stepped over to him and was pointing the gun at his head, was clearly what the consulting detective wanted.

Donavan and Greg had only brought one police car, thank God, and Sherlock pointed the gun at the driver while dragging John behind him (the doctor wishing he would at least grab his wrist and not the handcuffs).

"Time to go, John" Sherlock said quietly, "Ready?"

"When you are."

And then they were running along the street, Donavan screaming after them. But even the Sergeant had too much sense to shoot after them – they were, after all, not a threat anymore.

"What now?" John managed to ask just as Sherlock led him into a thankfully empty side street. "We are on the run and these certainly don't help".

At least his hands had been cuffed in front of his body which made running a little easier, but he would rather prefer to have them off – he was bound to attract attention wherever he went.

His best friend didn't answer, focused on getting them as quickly as possible far away from Baker Street.

Until he had seen Mrs. Hudson's face, he hadn't even known he was going to free John. He had been busy thinking over every possible scenario, wondering how fast Mycroft could break his doctor out of jail –

And then he had seen the shock in Mrs. Hudson's eyes, and had realized he wouldn't be able to stand the thought of John behind bars, even if for a night. Letting him get into the car would mean giving up on the man who had saved his life, and Sherlock couldn't do that. No matter what happened.

He was rather sure (although he wasn't good at reading people's emotions, but he could always ask John later, when they were safe) that Lestrade had rather exaggerated his head injury (if there even was one; somehow he hadn't been able to bring himself to hit his DI too hard) and he had certainly not fought much for his weapon. And he hadn't wanted to arrest John, that much was clear. So at least there was one policeman who was on their side; he should talk to Mycroft as soon as he had the chance, his brother would find a way to arrange that Lestrade coordinated the search for them...

After a while, Sherlock stopped running, after having looked around and decided that they had come far enough, for the time being. Plus, John definitely needed to catch his breath; despite his protests during the last few months, the doctor had been shot in the chest and still wasn't as healthy as he used to be. Which was another reason why they needed a safe place to stay.

"So... what... now?" John panted, leaning against a wall behind him. Once again, he cursed Moran; why couldn't he have got another bullet in the shoulder?

"My..croft?"

"No, at least not in daylight" Sherlock answered, his eyes searching the street to make sure no one had noticed them. "If anyone saw us – anyone who isn't on Mycroft's pay roll, that is – and it came out that he was hiding fugitives, he wouldn't be able to help us anyway".

John nodded and hid a smile. Sherlock might say that he didn't care for Mycroft, but no one could tell him that the consulting detective was merely thinking of himself and John when he wished to protect Mycroft's position.

"Good. Where then?"

"Not two blocks from here there's an abandoned building members of my homeless network use frequently. We are safe there; I don't think anyone will be in at this time of the day, and even if they were, they wouldn't call the police".

"Are you sure?" John asked as he slowly followed Sherlock, walking behind the consulting detective to hide the handcuffs as well as he could.

"Never bites the hand that feeds you, John".

"And I thought you'd always treated Mycroft they way you do now."

"I did. But I am not exactly the rule, John". He could hear the half-smirk he knew so well in the consulting detective's voice and stifled a ridiculous urge to laugh. A crazy ex-army sniper was after his best friend, he had just fled after being arrested for murder (a murder he had actually committed), they were going to hide in an abandoned building homeless people usually hung out in, and he felt utterly relaxed, in fact, happy.

If this meant that he was mad – so be it. He couldn't imagine life without Sherlock, even if it meant leaving the country with him.

They arrived at the building without any problems (even though John thought a few people had noticed his handcuffs – but, since no one said anything, they probably believed he and Sherlock were living out a weird fetish) and Sherlock set to work on John's handcuffs. Within a few minutes, he had opened them.

"You couldn't do that before because..." John wanted to know, rubbing his wrists.

"Because we couldn't risk standing still long enough, John."

Sherlock darted out of the room and John guessed that he was checking whether anyone else was in the building. He was right, because Sherlock came back not long after, shaking his head.

"So" John said, "What now?"

"Now" Sherlock replied, very slowly, as if he thought John was an imbecile simply for asking that question, "we bring down Moran".

John couldn't help it; he laughed. "Of course. But how?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have come to the conclusion that I shouldn't have spent all this time looking for Moran, but rather for clues". When John looked at him, not comprehending, Sherlock elaborated. "Moran has committed several crimes, correct?"

"Yes, although I think "several" might be an understatement."

"Exactly. And who do we now who knows a good deal about some of them because he witnessed what Moran did?"

John's eyes widened and he cursed. "Of course! I can tell you about..."

"I know, John. So, we are going to investigate each of these crimes and see if we can trace them back to Moran..."

John understood. "Then we would have leverage".

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. So, let's begin with the first time you ever treated someone Moran told you about..."

And, as John once again told his story, a fugitive, a murderer and the only friend of a high-functioning sociopath, he couldn't help but notice one thing – he had never felt more safe in his life.


	10. Chapter 10

Greg didn't know how he had become the leader of the troop trying to find John and Sherlock – the Chief Superintendent couldn't have wanted it, judging by his face when he told the DI about the assignment – but he suspected that Mycroft had something to do with it. The older Holmes had probably watched their escape on surveillance footage and immediately set the wheels for Greg to be responsible for their capture in motion.

But, no matter how it had come to pass, he wasn't trying particularly hard to find them. Donavan and Anderson were currently standing in his office, attempting to make him see what they considered "sensible measures" to find the consulting detectives.

"Sir, shouldn't we get his phone records to see who he's had contact with since..."

Greg looked at Donavan and shook his head. She wasn't a bad police officer, but Sherlock was right; she could be rather annoying, and she never let go of an idea.  
And she had been too gleeful about the possibility to arrest John. It wasn't surprising: from the beginning, she had been sceptical about someone "crazy enough to live with the freak", although she had believed John to be a nice, regular guy who somehow got caught up in Sherlock's life. However Greg doubted that this would be the best moment to address this. So instead he chose to interrupt her explanation why Sherlock's phone records were their best chance at finding him.

"This is Sherlock Holmes we are talking about, Sergeant. I think it's safe to say that he hasn't called anyone since they escaped. John too, for that matter. It's a safe bet that they are both turned off –maybe they even threw them away. And if you want to look at his phone records for the past few weeks, hoping to find a clue – you might as well spare yourself the trouble and go ahead and arrest me and Sherlock's brother".

Anderson sneered, and Greg had the feeling that the forensic tech would appreciate it if his lover (he had known about the from the start, he was still a good police man, no matter what a certain someone said, and simply been too polite to say anything, something Sherlock clearly wasn't) would follow this suggestion.

Normally he tried to ignore Anderson's and Donavan's behaviour and to concentrate on the task at hand; now, however, he couldn't bring himself to do it. They were after – it was time to admit it to himself. They were after his two best friends in the world.

So he sent them away – they would probably go and tell all their colleagues that he shouldn't be heading the search, but with Mycroft Holmes behind that, there wasn't much they could do – and rubbed his face with his hands, sighing. It wasn't that he didn't want to find Sherlock and John – quite the opposite, in fact – but he couldn't deny that he was, despite feeling guilty because of it, he didn't want to find them so he could arrest them.

He wanted to help them.

Somehow, he felt like an accomplice – he had known about John's past, after all, he was rather sure he was the only one who knew all about it, except John himself, Sherlock, Mycroft and Moran, and he had done nothing.

Because he hadn't wanted to put a good man, a friend, in jail, because said friend had made a few bad choices.

He felt like a hypocrite, feeling this way; after all, couldn't all criminals claim that they had simply "made bad choices" in their lives?

And yet –

Sherlock and John were his friends. At least John was his friend, and he was beginning to suspect that he meant more to Sherlock than he'd thought. The consulting detective certainly hadn't hit him particularly hard – in fact, he might even have exaggerated a little.

He sighed again. Somehow, almost unconsciously, he had wanted them to escape. He was the one who had turned his back on the consulting detective – knowing how Sherlock felt about John's arrest. And he had not really struggled with him – even though all Sherlock had done was grab his gun and give him a blow to the head.

Just when he was wondering what to do his phone rang. He wasn't surprised to see a blocked number; in fact, he had expected it.

"Hello" he said.

As expected, the caller turned out to be Mycroft. The older Holmes had several burn phones, in case he ever needed to call someone without the call being traceable, and with Donavan being already suspicious of him, it was certainly better not to let anyone know they were communicating.

"Inspector Lestrade".

"Thank you for the appointment" Greg said matter-of-factly – he had known Mycroft for almost as long as he'd known Sherlock, and there was no need to keep up the pretence that he didn't know just how much power Sherlock's brother possessed.

"No, thank you, Inspector" Mycroft answered. "I am sure your appointment is in Sherlock's best interest".

Greg decided not to answer this and instead asked "Any news?"

"No, and I am not expecting any until nightfall".

Naturally; Sherlock wouldn't risk calling Mycroft with his phone, and he wouldn't run around in daylight, not when every police man in London was on the look-out for him.

"But you know where..." He didn't finish the sentence, and Mycroft didn't answer immediately.

After a few moments he said, "I am rather sure that Sherlock and John are safe at the moment."

Greg smiled, relieved. Mycroft must have found them on a security camera somewhere, and when he thought his brother was safe for the time being...

"That" Mycroft added "is not the reason for my call, however".

He should have known.

"Then what is?"

"As you are aware, forensics matched the bullet found near the skeleton of Timothy Wallace with a gun that was identified as belonging to Doctor Watson".

Mycroft made a dramatic pause – really, the whole family tended to be too dramatic for their own good – and then continued.

"It could be possible – not likely, but still, possible – that it was a false match".

Greg swallowed. Mycroft had hardly ever told him what to do in a straightforward manner, and this time was no exception. But, as usual, Greg understood what was expected of him.

No, not expected. The older Holmes was still waiting for a reply. He was giving Greg a choice.

A choice that wasn't really a choice at all.

If John were caught, Sherlock probably would be too. And in that case, after having helped a murderer to escape, Sherlock's career as a consulting detective would be finished. He would maybe even go to jail. Or turn back to drugs.

Or they managed to leave the country.

In either case, Greg wouldn't see them again. And, suddenly, that seemed far worse than risking his career.

So, really, there wasn't much of a choice.

"Yes" he said slowly. "It's possible".

He could have sworn that a relieved sigh escaped Mycroft's lips at his answer.

Meanwhile, John did his best trying to remember everything he could about Moran's crimes, but as it soon turned out, proving them would be difficult.

„Moran killed at least fourteen people during the time you worked for Moriarty" Sherlock said, once John had finished his tale. "Do you have any idea where he got rid of the bodies?"

John shook his head. "I did help him hide one of the bodies – the one I shot – but I don't think he'd make the mistake of hiding it where other bodies were, even though he told me the opposite. After all, he mistrusted me from the beginning – he was jealous of me".

Sherlock nodded and started to pace up and down the room. The doctor sat down and watched his best friend for a few minutes. Then, his attention slowly focusing on the house, John mused that it must once have been rather pretty; it was big, had several rooms – he could see why Sherlock's homeless network would use it as their place to hide...

"John" Sherlock called, and the doctor realized that his eyes had been about to close. Sherlock was looking at him.

"You haven't slept since this whole thing started".

"No" John answered, a yawn escaping him. "I haven't. But neither have you."

Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "I don't need it".

"Of course not" John replied, yawning again.

"You, however, do, so I suggest you try and get some sleep while I think matters over – we won't be able to move before nightfall anyway."

John, feeling the adrenaline from their escape slowly ebbing away, was too tired to argue and lay down on the floor.

Sherlock's pacing and his mumbling soon lulled him to sleep.

Sherlock glanced at his doctor, finally resting, and sighed. Things didn't look good, although he was sure Mycroft was already (despite his assurances that he couldn't do anything once they had found the weapon) working on a plan to exonerate the doctor. Sometimes being related with the British Government had his upsides, although Sherlock certainly would never tell Mycroft that.

He concentrated on the task at hand. They had to find a way to prove that Moran had committed several crimes – and for that, they needed to find...

Of course. The gun. Moran had probably already used it before. And there was a possibility that no one had noticed that his victims had been shot by a sniper, because the bullet, as John had pointed out, looked more like one you would use for a pistol.

He had to call Lestrade.

But, first he had to wait until nightfall when he could sneak into the Diogenes Club.

Sitting down, he closed his eyes and went to his mind palace. Soon enough, however, the last few days caught up with him too and he fell asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

John awoke just as the sun set and smiled when he realized that Sherlock, despite his protests that he didn't need sleep, had finally succumbed to the fatigue the case and their escape must have brought on. His friend was lying underneath the window, apparently having slid down after sitting beneath it, his breathing slow and regular.

John stood up, his muscles protesting after he'd spent the last few hours on the floor, and walked over to the window, careful not to be seen.

The sun had all but disappeared over the horizon and there were no people on the street. It looked... peaceful, and, just for a moment, with his best friend sleeping in front of him, it was hard to believe that a love sick sniper was trying to destroy his life. Then John kneeled down and shook Sherlock by the shoulder to wake him up.

The consulting detective's eyes flattered open, and for a second, he seemed confused about where he was. John hid a smile.

"Sunset" he announced, "You said we could only move after nightfall".

Sherlock nodded, once again looking calm and collected, and sat up. "I am going to the Diogenes Club to meet Mycroft – there is a backdoor only the members know about, so I won't be seen by any employees."

"When are we going?" John asked, perfectly aware that Sherlock had said "I" because he wanted to go alone – but not willing to let him.

"You are safe here. And you are wanted for murder. You are not coming".

"Try to make me stay". John looked up at Sherlock, sure that the consulting detective would read his determination. And Sherlock knew that he wouldn't be able to fight John; he might have been shot twice but he still had his army training and knew how to defend himself.

Sherlock frowned and looked away, and John knew he had won. "Fine" he grumbled, "but you do whatever I tell you to do".

John nodded and they looked out of the window in silence, the last few rays of sunlight slowly fading away.

"How do we get to the Diogenes Club?" John asked when it had grown dark enough for them to be on their way.

"We'll walk. It's not far".

John nodded. "Will Mycroft be there?"

"He'll be expecting us" Sherlock answered, turning around and making his way to the door, "After all he must know all about our escape by now. He probably watched it live on a camera feed".

It wouldn't surprise John either, and he didn't say anything as they left the house.

They carefully made their way through the dark streets, Sherlock's knowledge of the city once again proving useful. Within ten minutes, they were standing in front of the back door into the Diogenes Club, that was naturally hidden by a dumpster and required a code to be entered in order to open it.

"Just out of curiosity" John whispered as Sherlock pushed the necessary buttons, "did Mycroft tell you the code".

"No" Sherlock whispered back "but it wasn't difficult to figure out."

Of course it hadn't been, John thought. And, knowing Mycroft, he probably made sure that his little brother could figure out the code in emergencies, even though he could easily hindered Sherlock at breaking into the Club.

John had been at the Diogenes Club a couple of times in the past few months – mostly when Mycroft decided he needed to talk to his brother's flatmate and didn't feel inclined to wait in an abandoned warehouse – and he'd never really felt at ease in the pompous surroundings. Especially not since he'd never been fond of silence. Maybe that was another reason the consulting detective and he got on so well; Sherlock was rarely truly silent, even if he wasn't talking for once. There was the sound of him pacing up and down, the clinking of his experiments in the kitchen, gunshots (although John hadn't been overjoyed there was a smiley face in the wall), some kind of noise.

Not so in the Diogenes Club. The silence was stifling; John couldn't understand why anyone would wish to spend time there, even if Mycroft had explained to him why it was necessary to forbid the members to talk. But if you spend your day in a place you couldn't talk – why didn't you just spend it at home alone? It had never made sense to the doctor.

And he would never have thought that he'd ever see the day when the Club was even more deserted and quiet than usual, but apparently, most members preferred spending their evenings somewhere else.

Mycroft was awaiting them in the visitor's room, impeccably dressed as always, umbrella in his hand.

He nodded politely when they entered. "Sherlock... John". His gaze bored into the doctor's, and he wondered if Mycroft was angry with him because he had made his brother a fugitive, albeit unwillingly. With both Moran and the police after him, it wasn't a pleasant thought.

But then the older Holmes focused on his brother. "DI Lestrade is the leader of the team searching for you two". Sherlock nodded. "I assume they aren't very effective?" he asked, smirking. Mycroft did his best not to answer the smirk with one of his own and to appear as dignified as ever, but didn't quite succeed. "Based on the fact that you are here, I would say no".

Sherlock became serious once again and sat down, John following suit. "Concerning John's predicament..."

Mycroft raised the tip of his umbrella and looked at it. "Don't worry, I have talked to DI Lestrade about it".

"And?" John asked, baffled. "What can he do? After all, if they matched the bullet they found to my gun..."

"It can still be a false match" Mycroft replied smoothly and Sherlock nodded.

John slowly looked from Mycroft to Sherlock. A moment later, finally comprehending what they meant, he sprang up. "Wait... are you... are you telling me Greg is going to swap the guns?"

"Of course not" Mycroft answered, slightly affronted. "Too obvious. He is going to exchange the barrel".

"The... Mycroft, just to be sure: You told Greg to do something that could not only jeopardize his career, but his freedom, if he got caught?"

"I'm sure Lestrade is more than capable of eluding capture, John" Sherlock answered.

John shook his head and started pacing up and down, trying to keep his voice down because shouting at Mycroft wouldn't help. ""That's not the point – the point is that he brought one of our friends in danger, Sherlock! There must be other ways..."

"If you happen to have another idea" Mycroft interrupted, calm as always, "tell me and I will make sure DI Lestrade gets the message".

John stopped pacing, sighed and rubbed his face with his hands.

"If it is any consolation" Mycroft added "He decided he wanted to do it. And I certainly didn't threaten him into agreeing."

John shook his head. "Fine". Once upon a time, he would have been concerned that he accepted the fact that another friend was willing to go to jail for him that easily.

He sat down again when Mycroft started to explain that they would be brought to a house he owned in the city after midnight – of course, it was house that didn't even exist officially. They would have to be careful not to show themselves because the neighbours thought it was deserted.

Sherlock tried to complain when his brother told him they would have to lay low for a few days, until things had quietened down, but complied when Mycroft made a comment about "Someone obviously needing his rest". John rolled his eyes, wondering if Mycroft simply happened to forget or didn't care that John was in the room.

He had to admit, though, when he entered the house (or, rather, the mansion) that Mycroft certainly had made sure they'd be comfortable. Sherlock looked around, frowning, before going upstairs and declaring one of the bedrooms as his. John, meanwhile, went into the kitchen and found the fridge well stocked. After having eaten several slices of toast – he was too tired to cook anything, and Sherlock would declare he wasn't hungry anyway – he went upstairs and to bed, looking in on Sherlock on the way. The consulting detective seemed to be stuck in his mind palace and John couldn't help but smile.

Hoping that Sherlock would at least have the good sense to get some rest later, he allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

Around the time Mycroft had Sherlock and John brought into his safe house, Greg was slowly walking down the corridor to the evidence locker, heart pounding in his chest. Earlier in the evening, a special courier had brought a package that held the barrel Mycroft had told him to –

No, the barrel that Mycroft had asked him to –

No. Nobody had asked him to do it. He had decided to do it, and he would do it. For Sherlock and John. For his friends.

Luckily, the evidence locker was deserted. He slowly entered the code and walked in, searching for the bag that contained John's gun. He found it soon enough and, after donning on gloved, carefully unsealed it, lifting it out gingerly. Naturally, it would have been easier to exchange the gun, but even Anderson would have noticed that, so he slowly opened it and switched out the barrel. Now all he had to do was find an excuse for running the test again.

He couldn't help but feel a certain satisfaction when he slipped out again, certain that Mycroft would make sure that he wouldn't appear on any security tape. Maybe he had finally found out why he got along so well with Sherlock and John: They didn't seem to be the only ones to have criminal streak in them.


	12. Chapter 12

As expected, Sherlock didn't sleep that night, if his pacing around the living room when John came downstairs the next morning was anything to go by.

"Why do we have to hide?" he complained. "We are more than capable of staying under the radar, and the police are idiots anyway".

"We are fugitives, remember? Don't worry, I'm sure Mycroft will keep us updated" John replied, walking into the kitchen. Reminding Sherlock of his dependency on his brother was most likely not the best idea, but the stress of being sought for murder, chased by Moran and having to worry about the safety of his friends was finally getting to him.

He heard Sherlock huff and plop down on the sofa, just like he would at Baker Street, and the familiarity of the sound made him smile despite everything.

For a moment, at least, because then Sherlock decided to speak again.

"Being hunted by the police is terribly inconvenient" he grumbled. "Probably shouldn't have run away".

That hurt more than John would have thought. In fact, he would have expected that he would agree with Sherlock. Hadn't he thought the same several times during their chase? Hadn't he been prepared to go to jail so Sherlock would be safe? Hadn't he felt guilty for pulling Sherlock into the mess his life had become? And now he felt hurt because Sherlock agreed with him for once.

He swallowed and continued searching for a kettle in the strange kitchen. He needed tea, now even more than before.

Not that the consulting detective would understand what he was feeling. Sherlock didn't think emotions important, in fact, there were moments John believed he had deleted most of them long ago. On the other hand, he had been concerned when the doctor had been shot and tried to look after him (not that Mrs. Hudson had left him much to do).

Now John felt guilty for thinking of Sherlock as emotionless too. As if his day couldn't get any worse.

Sherlock must (surprisingly) have realized that John had heard his grumbling and hadn't reacted, because suddenly he was standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

"John?"

"Do you want a cuppa? Once i find the kettle, that is..." the doctor asked, realizing how pressed his voice sounded and desperately hoping that Sherlock wouldn't notice, that he would be too preoccupied with the case, when –

"John". Sherlock looked almost apologetic and took a tentative step towards his friend. "I didn't mean – "

"I know" John answered, hoping that Sherlock would believe him, although the tone of his voice hadn't changed, and apparently the consulting detective had, today of all days, decided that he wouldn't ignore the feelings of another human being.

He took another step towards John, stopped, and opened a cupboard John hadn't searched yet, pulling a kettle from the highest shelf. Of course.

He gave it to him without a word and only started to speak after John had started to fill the kettle with water.

"I – I didn't mean I regret freeing you, John. Or running away with you. I – I would do it again, although this is of course a rather redundant expression, since no two – "  
"It's alright, Sherlock" John answered, genuinely touched. He looked at the detective and grinned. "It's all fine. Sorry for being so – "

"Ordinary?" Sherlock suggested, but there was a certain sparkle in his eyes that told John his best friend was trying to be funny, so he just smiled and shook his head before announcing, "Just so you know, you will eat something today".

Sherlock looked like he wanted to protest, then thought better of it and sat down at the kitchen table, leaving John to do the work. The doctor didn't complain, he was used to it and it wouldn't make an impression on the consulting detective anyway.

While they were still eating breakfast, Greg made his way into the Yard, feeling rather nervous. He was sure he had done the right thing and would do it again, but he still had to lie to his colleagues –who weren't all colleagues, despite what Sherlock said. At least he'd been right about the security cameras; Mycroft had informed him yesterday, as soon as he'd got home (only to find that his wife was spending a few days with her mother, without telling him off her plans) that he was nowhere to be seen on the footage of that night since he'd made sure to keep it in a loop while Greg had been arranging things.

He got coffee and slowly walked into his office, the phone on his table starting to ring as soon as he'd sat down, and he sighed, already knowing who it was.

The Chief Superintendent sounded annoyed at his lack of progress, then ordered him along with Donavan (which meant Anderson would be there too, since he spent most of his time, when not working on evidence, following her around) in his office.

Just as Greg put down the receiver a little harder than necessary, he realized that just now the perfect opportunity for him to make sure the gun was re-examined had presented itself. If he could only manipulate the Chief Superintendent...

He stood up and called out to Donavan. As expected, Anderson followed them.

The Chief Superintendent looked as annoyed as he had sounded, but at least that would only help his plan.

After the Chief Superintendent was done telling them what a poor job they had done of tracking John Watson and Sherlock Holmes down, that was. Greg could live with that.

He had problems keeping his temper, however, when his boss started implying that Sherlock might not have been on their side after all, might even be a fraud. Maybe the consulting detective had been right all along. People were idiots.

"Sir" Greg explained patiently, "every case Sherlock Holmes has helped us with checked out – our department has managed to put more criminals behind bars than any other."

"Has it?" The Chief Superintendent suddenly looked rather triumphant, like he'd just had an idea, and Greg had the strange and somehow exhilarating feeling that, despite this, he had managed to lead him where he wanted him to be. Idly, he wondered if Mycroft felt like this the whole time.

"Then how" his boss continued, "did he miss the fact that his –" he looked expectantly at Greg, as if unsure how to call John, and the DI almost snorted. "Flatmate" he provided, and the Chief Superintendent repeated the word, although he didn't seem convinced, "flatmate killed a man several months ago? If he is such a good detective, shouldn't he have found it out? Or... were they accomplices the whole time?"

Greg could feel Donavan and Anderson gloating behind his back and tried to sound as indignant as possible. "We don't know yet for sure that John Watson killed Timothy Wallace".

Anderson sneered. "Lestr – " The Chief Superintendent shot him a stern look and he corrected himself. "Sir, I told you that I matched the bullet to Doctor Watson's gun – and the biological residue on the bullet proves that it was the one used to kill Timothy Wallace. It has his DNA all over it."

Deciding to add a little bit more fuel to the fire, Greg said, "I'm still not sure it was John's gun that was used – "

The Chief Superintendent exploded. "Fine. Anderson will double check the ballistic test – and I want to hear no complaints, Anderson, do you understand? Maybe once you see the same result several times you will be able to actually lead the search effectively".

He dismissed with a wave of his hand and Greg made his way back to his office, Donavan and Anderson having walked away without bestowing another glance on him. He did his best to appear as concerned as he'd been before Mycroft's call yesterday, but didn't hold back a satisfied smile once he was in the safety of his office. Anderson could repeat the test as often as he wanted – it would always be negative. He'd made sure to get rid of the original barrel – he'd broken it into pieces and distributed them over several bins – and no one would ever knew that he'd exchanged it, except for his friends.

A blocked number called his mobile again, and he picked up with a simple "It worked".

"I know. I expect John to be cleared by the end of the day".

"If Anderson isn't still repeating the test then out of sheer desperation" Greg replied, and could have sworn that he heard Mycroft chuckle for a moment.

"I will inform Sherlock and John of the developments" he announced, then, before hanging up, added, "Thank you, Inspector".

Greg was left to ponder over what he'd done in the last twenty-four hours and to wonder if he had, perhaps, spent too much time with the Holmes brothers over the last few years.

John was doing his best to distract Sherlock by telling him every detail he remembered about working for Moriarty once again when a text alert rang out. John raised an eyebrow. "I thought you had turned your phone off?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, John – of course I did. But do you really think Mycroft would own a safe house without several smart phones in the vicinity?"

Of course Mycroft wouldn't, and John nodded. Sherlock read the text. "Mycroft and Lestrade managed to get our problem out of the way. He'll text again once you're officially cleared and the search has been called off".

John nodded, again, wondering why he didn't feel more relieved before he remembered Moran. "So we wait".

"It won't take long" Sherlock responded, flopping down on the sofa. John smiled and went into the kitchen to make more tea. Might as well enjoy a nice cuppa while he could; he very much doubted he'd be able to make more once he and Sherlock were allowed to chase after Moran and trying to bring him down once and for all.


	13. Chapter 13

Thankfully, Anderson gave up after three tries to make the bullet match the gun again and reluctantly called Greg – or rather he called Donavan, naturally, who then told Greg about his findings. This time, he didn't have to hide his relief, although it was for another reason than the Sergeant supposed. Knowing Sherlock, he was already bored out of his mind, and not even John would keep him in the safe house much longer when he could be out there hunting for Moran.

He sent a text to the blocked number Mycroft had called him from earlier – maybe, if his brother told him the news, Sherlock would be a bit more patient – then made sure the news got out to every police station in the city. The sooner they got Sherlock out of a safe house that belonged to his brother the better.

After having done this, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. At least he had got John of the hook. True, he had committed the murder he had been sought for, but in the end – he had tried to help Moran out of instinct not because he'd wanted to kill the poor young man.

Greg couldn't deny that Moran's plan had been a good one, however, and would have worked if Sherlock's brother didn't happen to be the British Government. They had to catch him soon, before he decided to take his revenge in a different way –

John had told him about Moran's unrequited love for Moriarty. So the ex-sniper would probably try to take away the one thing John couldn't live without...

Greg swallowed. Sherlock. The consulting detective was in danger. He had to speak with them both as soon as they were back at 221B, to make sure they (or rather John, he would never make Sherlock see sense) took some precautions. At least Mycroft would certainly upgrade their surveillance status now.

Sherlock was still (or again, depending how you looked at it) pacing up and down the living room, and John was considering praying for a quick solution when Mycroft sent another text and the consulting detective told him that he had been proven innocent – or, rather, had been made innocent – and that they would soon be able to leave the house. John winced when Sherlock used the term "made innocent", and his friend seemed to notice because he immediately started talking about the case again – or, rather, their lack of a case against Moran.

John agreed with him that it was frustrating, especially since he had seen Moran commit several crimes. But there was no way they could prove that he committed them, not until they found the man who had...

It was as if the proverbial light bulb had been turned on over his head, and, for once, he swore openly.

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

"John?"

"The gun" John explained, jumping up and doing his own pacing – "You said light and easy to conceal?"

Sherlock nodded, for once not understanding what John wanted.

"When I was stationed in Afghanistan" the doctor explained, "Now and then, there would be some talk of a new kind of sniper rifle. Just rumours, mind, I don't believe the weapon ever saw a battle, but it should have been a very accurate rifle, small and –"

"Light?" Sherlock asked, comprehending immediately, his eyes starting to shine.

John nodded. "If I remember correctly, the project was said to have been abandoned later, although I can't say why. But, if there was such a project –"

"Mycroft has access to the information" Sherlock finished the sentence excitedly before taking out the phone he'd found in the house and texting Mycroft. John sat down again, happy that he'd finally done something of importance. Mycroft would find out, Mycroft always found out. And then they could trace the manufacturer.

Mycroft told Sherlock that he'd need some time – so the file must be buried deep – but that they were free to go and that DI Lestrade wants to see them at the Yard. Naturally, Sherlock grumbled that he had to follow up this lead, but John shot him a stern look and reminded him that Greg had just done them a huge favour – in fact, he wasn't sure how he would ever repay the detective – and so they left the house and took a cab to Scotland Yard.

Donavan was waiting for them, disdain evident on her face. Sherlock, as usual, swept past her without a second glance, John followed, trying to keep a blank face.

She, however, wasn't ready to let it go.

"How did you do it?" she asked, casually, following him.

"Do what?" John replied just as casually.

"You know what I mean – the bullet was a match only yesterday, Anderson showed me. Today it#s not. So, what happened? Did your freak safe you?"

"I didn't do it" John answered, surprised how easy it was to lie. "That is the reason. If Anderson can't do his work correctly it's not my fault. Oh, and Sherlock is not a freak".

"Not so sure about which one of you is anymore myself" she spat, sitting down at her desk.

John was a little bit shocked at himself that he wasn't angry with her, but rather amused at her annoyance. He finally made his way into Greg's office, where Sherlock was already waiting, and knew as soon as he saw the DI'S face that his friend must have said something to shock him.

"Sherlock..." he warned, turning to Greg to apologize, but the DI shook his head.

"Relax, John – he just – he thanked me. That's all".

John chuckled. "Not used to it?"

"You could say that". They grinned at each other as Sherlock huffed. "John made it clear that he expected me to thank you for your endeavours, and I did. Can we now please concentrate at the task at hand?"

"Of course" Greg answered, waving away John's tries to thank him. "You don't have to thank me too, John; I did it because I wanted to. You don't deserve to go to jail".

"According to Donavan, I do. I think she's going to start calling me freak now too".

"Creativity has never been her strong suit" Sherlock mumbled, looking at his phone – he had turned it on again as soon as Mycroft had informed them they were allowed to leave the house – and reading the text that only Mycroft could have sent.

"John, you were right" he exclaimed happily "the army considered trying out the rifles, but in the end it was decided that they were too expensive. The manufacturer – and inventor, according to the patent – is a German living in London called Herder. Mycroft has already found out his address".

"Of course he has" John muttered, and Greg winked at him.

"Come on John, let's go" Sherlock announced, strolling out of the office, and the doctor shot Greg an apologetic look.

"Don't worry, I know how he is" the DI smiled.

John shook his head. "Alright, but one of these days I am buying you a pint".

"Okay by me. And call me if there's any problem".

"I will".

They shook hands and John turned to follow Sherlock.

The detective had already hailed a cab and was impatiently bouncing on the pavement. John said nothing and got in the cab.

The ride to Herder's house wasn't long and Sherlock explained to John that they'd simply ask him whether he'd sold any of his rifles lately – his reaction would probably be enough to tell them what they wanted to know, and maybe they could find a link to Moran. John agreed and continued looking out of the window, a strange sense of foreboding in his mind.

As it turned out, he had been right, because Herder's front door stood open when they got out of the cab.

Sherlock, instantly alert, murmured, "Alright. Let's take a look".

"Sherlock, shouldn't we – "

But the consulting detective was already in the house, so John simply sighed and took out his phone. He sent a text to Greg requesting assistance, knowing that it would be useless to contact Mycroft, since the older Holmes probably already knew where they were, and hurried towards the front door, before Sherlock could –

A shot rang out inside the house.


	14. Chapter 14

For a moment after the shot had rang out, John stood still, the sudden silence ringing in his ears. Then he ran like he'd never run before, cursing his own stupidity. What were the chances that someone decided to break into Herder's house at the exact day Sherlock and John found out about his connection with the rifle that had killed Ronald Adair? Someone like Moran must have his informants, even at Scotland Yard, and he had guessed where they would go after being exonerated. He had broken into the house and waited for them. And when Sherlock entered it, alone, unarmed, he'd taken his chance...

How he wished owned another gun. But his gun was still lying in the evidence locker at Scotland Yard – Sherlock had run out of the building before he could retrieve it...

John burst through the door. No one was in the corridor. He ran to the door he supposed led to the living room.

He was right.

Sherlock was half-lying, half-sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, clutching his left shoulder. Blood was oozing forth between his fingers, and John hoped that it had been a through-and-through, though he couldn't be sure. But at least Sherlock was alive.

His relief was short lived, because he realized at this moment that Sebastian Moran was standing in the middle of the room, his gun trained at Sherlock.

"John" he said, his voice flat, his hand steady.

"Sebastian" John replied, slowly walking into the room. His heart was pounding in his chest and his mouth was dry. If Sebastian should decide to pull the trigger... He looked at Sherlock, who wore a clam expression on his face, as he had expected, but he could read the well-hidden fear in the eyes of the consulting detective. Somehow, the realization that he wasn't scared for himself, but for the doctor made John even more nervous.

"I expected you would find out where I got the gun from in time" the ex-sniper said, "so as soon as I heard you weren't under suspicion of murder anymore – well done, by the way – I came here to wait".

"Herder" Sherlock hissed, putting more pressure on his wound.

"He's upstairs" Moran replied, "although I don't think he'll hear you".

John had known that the manufacturer was dead as soon as he'd realized Moran was in the house; furthermore, right now, he couldn't care less about Herder's fate. He had to concentrate on getting Sherlock out of this house alive, just like it had been at the pool. Sebastian seemed to remember the last time they had been together at the same place too, if they vicious look he bestowed on John was anything to go by.

Even though he knew it was hopeless, John tried to calm Sebastian. "This is between you and me, Moran. It has nothing to do with Sherlock. Let him go. I'll stay and we can talk about it..."

Moran laughed a short, bitter laugh. "Talk about it? Talking is not what I plan on doing right now, Johnny".

The use of the nickname Moriarty had given him made John wince. Moran smiled – but John noticed that it was an unhappy, cruel smile, the smile of a person who had nothing left to lose and was prepared to do anything.

Moran looked from him to Sherlock and asked, "So, where would you like me to put my next bullet? I'd start with the joints. Make him suffer and bleed before I end it in front of you".

"John" Sherlock hissed, and the doctor could read his thoughts in his eyes. His heart clenched.

Moran smiled again, apparently thinking that Sherlock was asking for help. Only he wasn't.

He was asking John to leave. Moran's gaze was strained on him; the doctor could be out of the house in under a minute. Wait for Lestrade's men (and most likely Mycroft's) in safety.

Sherlock was asking him to give up his best friend to save himself.

 _No_ , he told him by shooting him a determined look. Sherlock understood and, even now, his lips curled up in his half-smirk. It was almost soothing under the circumstances, or at least he would have been, if Sherlock hadn't been –

"Stop that" Moran interrupted their silent conversation. "Do you really think I'll let you two make a plan right under my nose?"

"Sebastian" John decided to try again, "I texted DI Lestrade and Sherlock's brother knows where we are. If you don't let us go now, there is no chance you'll survive this".

Of course he could still shoot both of them and leave before any help arrived, but John decided not to give him any ideas.

Moran shook his head, as if amazed by John's stupidity, and looked at the doctor. "What makes you think I want to survive this?"

There was a strange glint in his eyes, and he seemed to become more excited by the minute. Clearly, ever since the loss of Moriarty, he had slowly sunk deeper and deeper into a downward spiral, and he was close to finally taking the plunge and losing his mind. This was not good. John had seen it happen to men in Afghanistan, and a crazy man with a gun was always more dangerous than a sane one. Not that Moran had been sane before Moriarty's death; no one who followed a psychopath around like he had done could be. But he had at least been functioning. Now all he seemed to live for was revenge.

His suspicion was confirmed when Moran resumed talking. "I just want you to watch him die. Watch him suffer and bleed and beg for his death. Make you feel what it's like to – " he swallowed and hesitated before finishing the sentence. "To lose the most important person in your life right in front of your yes, powerless to do anything" he finally spat.

 _The most important person in your life._ He had finally said it out loud, John realized – what Moriarty had meant to him. Of course he wouldn't hesitate to admit that Sherlock was the most important person in his life, that he loved him, but in another way than Moran had...

And then a thought occurred to him. Maybe he could hold Moran's attention long enough for Lestrade's and (hopefully) Mycroft's men to arrive. And if this plan failed, it would probably make Moran angry enough to focus on him instead of Sherlock.

He shook his head and made sure that he sounded surprised when he asked, "So this is really all this is? Revenge for Moriarty's death?"

"What do you mean, all?" Moran looked at him, angrier than John had ever seen him, but before he could say anything else, the doctor had already added, "So it is. But, really, I don't understand why..."

"Why what?" the sniper spat, the gun he was still keeping on Sherlock beginning to shake ever so slightly. Most people would probably not have noticed it, but John had been a soldier, and he had had to look out for men who might panic any minute often enough. He knew the first signs of intense emotion.

"Why you would do something like this for someone who didn't care whether you lived or died".

"That's not – he would have done the same for me". He lowered the gun, just a bit, and suddenly, John realized what he had overlooked all this time of seeing Moriarty and Moran interact.

"So he slept with you once, then". It was a statement, and Moran knew it. And he didn't deny it.

"And then he treated you like the pet you were for him".

"Stop it!" Moran almost screamed, the gun beginning to shake more and more.

John cleared his throat. "Answer me a question: If you had been arrested for murder – would Moriarty have freed you? Run away with you?"

The consulting criminal wouldn't have, and they all knew it. Moriarty wouldn't have told Moran to run, like Sherlock tried to tell John, either. He would have happily accepted Moran's death.

The gun was shaking more and more, and, despite the fact he was sure Moran would shoot him any minute, he decided to deliver the final blow. Maybe Sherlock could hide or even attack Moran from behind while he was busy killing him.

"Although I suppose it would have been rather... inconvenient for him to find a new favourite little sniper who was so willing to do anything he asked."

At this moment, several things happened at once. Moran predictably spun around, ready to shoot John, when Sherlock jumped at him. John, immediately grasping what had happened, managed to kick the gun out of Moran's hand before the sniper grabbed his neck and John understood that this was it; Moran knew how to kill silently and efficiently and...

A shot rang out and Moran fell down right on top of John. At the next moment, Sherlock was frantically dragging the sniper off him with the hand he could use.

"John? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"

"No" John answered, rolling Moran off him and jumping up to inspect Sherlock's wound – it had only been a through-and-through after all, and the consulting detective had made it appear as if he was in more pain than he actually felt.

"Thank God" John breathed, and Sherlock answered, "I was going to say the same thing".

They looked at one another, then at Moran. The sniper was dead; Sherlock had shot him in the back of the head.

"Good shot" John commented, and Sherlock chuckled. "That's what Mycroft said when he saw Moriarty's body".

John looked at Sherlock and then pulled the consulting detective into a hug. At first he was surprised, then he hugged him back, using his right arm.

They let go when they heard the police cars arrive and Lestrade burst in the door.

"Sherlock? John? Is everything..." He looked at the body. "Colonel Moran, I presume?"

"Yes, Inspector, and the murderer of Ronald Adair. I'm sure you will find a trace of the gun when you look over Herder's records – he's lying upstairs."

Greg nodded, then saw the blood slowly trickling down Sherlock's left arm. "Sherlock..."

"It's alright, Greg, it's just a through-and-through, I'll take him to the hospital – I assume there's a limousine waiting?" John asked.

Greg nodded again, then shook his head and smiled. "You two will be the death of me. We'll pull you in tomorrow. Of you go".

They left, Sherlock already complaining that he had to go to the hospital, but complying when John told him that he wouldn't have to stay the night.

There wasn't much the hospital could do but dress the wound ("Really John, you could have done it much quicker") and describe him some painkillers before sending him home, and John told the driver to thank Mycroft while Sherlock huffed.

Mrs. Hudson made a fuss as expected – once again one of her boys was wounded, but she calmed down when John promised her it was nothing serious.

Later, they sat in the living room, both with steaming cups of tea before him, and Sherlock was trying to type on his laptop using only one arm.

"What are you writing anyway?" John asked after the third grumbled complaint. "You don't have a case at the moment".

"But I have to write down this one, John. Obviously."

John nodded, then an idea struck him. "Why don't you publish the notes on your homepage? They would make a good reading".

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't think my notes would be to the general public's taste. Why don't you try it?"

"Me?" John asked, thinking it over. "Not a bad idea. I still have that blog Ella forced me to write."

But Sherlock was already lost in his notes again, and John looked at him, fondness in his eyes. Writing down and publishing their cases in the internet could bring Sherlock even more cases. And John already knew the first line he was going to type.

_I don't regret anything._

Because he never would. He had been a soldier, he had been a criminal, he had been a murderer, but it had led him exactly where he was supposed to be. Where he had always been supposed to be.

And nothing else mattered.


End file.
